— Season Of The Soldier —
by InsomniousInk
Summary: [Christmas Fun] Elena Gilbert is in the process of travelling back to her hometown for the holidays, though an unexpected turn of events leaves her stranded in the airport on Christmas Eve. What will happen when her and (U.S Marine) Damon Salvatore take a shining to one-another in the midst of such festive mayhem?
1. Eggnog

_Hello, all!_

 _Here's something a little delicious for Christmas._

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Season Of The Soldier — Chapter one: Eggnog_

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

The snow was thick on the ground, and it crunched beneath my boots.

Somewhere, in the horizon, the sun was finally setting, eloping the sky in a blanket of white. Not a star nor the moon could be seen, and as a car raced by, it's headlights flickered, dying in the rain of ice.

I'm holding a packet of cigarettes, looking to it as a devout person would their god. Fifteen months without tobacco, and now, as I'm stepping from my title and throwing away my badge, I couldn't crave one more. I pull one out, run my thumb against the length of the filter paper, I bring it to my nose and I smell. It's strong. It's pungent. It reminds me of my eighteenth birthday when I hid behind the house and lit one up for the very first time. I remember feeling mature. I remember wishing for something stressful so I could relieve myself with a few drags. Now I'm trying to fend off the addiction.

The car with the broken taillights slows as it breaches the curb, a dress of red and the woman wearing it stepping into the blizzard. The vehicles skirts off, and she's left, looking over the airport with a sense of misery. She pulls her suitcase along and disappears into the building.

I'm reminded of my approaching plane, my flight to a dank and desolated cabin where I'd sit alone and open presents from those of the men I've served with. Becoming a Marine has many perks, one of them being the distance from reality, and the bond you'd make with a hundred strangers you'd never expect to get along with. You learn about fears, about instinct, about that little voice in the back of your head—the one that's talking right now. Aside from the treachery, the fear of it all, there is something so remarkable about building a strong friendship, you would almost never expect it to be severed; though it can, and often does. When those away return to their families, their homes, their Christmas trees laden with presents—they forget all about the fighters they've served with, too focused on carving into a turkey, smiling for the cameras that snap the moments.

I'm bitter with the thought, my loneliness catching up with me.

I cram the cigarette packet into the nearest trashcan and enter the airport, pulling my way through the sea of frantic fliers. The desk is crammed with those in line, all wrinkled and aged from the stress of getting home. I thread my way to the front, catching a woman in-between a phone call and her dinner break.

"What time is the last flight to Maine?"

The girl eyes my uniform and places her finger to silence the receiver, "You missed it an hour ago. No flights there till New Year's Eve."

I open my mouth to object, to deny the truth with whatever ounce of hope I had left in me—though she turns, and now she's occupied. With sluggish movements, I wield my way over to a café, the small something of a bistro that's serving eggnog in the spirit of Christmas.

I find myself falling into a barstool, cradling my forehead with the weight of this news weighing on my shoulders. In the far corner, someone pulls on a string and a cloud of confetti falls on a family that's laughing and giggling. A little girl has cream from her hot chocolate lining her upper lip, and the mother is trying to wipe it off with her tender thumb. I face the sceptical looking barman and order eggnog, the only alcoholic thing on the menu, or so it seems.

He fends off for it, and I slowly but surely feel myself breaking.

This is it. This is my turning point.

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

I'm immersed in a novel, a something of a romantic classic.

"If your feelings," says Mr Darcy, "are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever."

I sigh with my unrealistic expectations for a man, adding well-spoken and ardently passionate to the list. There is somewhat of a commotion going on at the front of the plane, but I'm not paying any attention; too fixated on the page before me.

It's only when a woman whispers to her friend but a seat or two behind that I catch what's really happening.

"—cannot believe this, Amy. Out of all the planes in this place and we're on the one that's broken."

"Broken? You mean—"

"Either we're going to get moved to another or we'll end up in smokes'."

My stomach gives a lurch and I rest the paperback on my knee.

"Excuse me," I say to the man filing through business work. "Do you know what's happening?"

He pulls out an earphone and shrugs his shoulders, returning back to writing and assorting.

I pinch my lips together and look around the area, concerned people standing, searching for the issue at hand. It's Christmas Eve, and not a single inch of the plane is spare.

"Passengers," Says a sudden voice from way above, "due to the technical difficulties we're experiencing, the plane will need to be evacuated in order for us to fix the situation. Please exit in an orderly fashion and follow those waiting outside for further information on your flight. Thank you."

With slow movements, everyone begins gathering their belongings with frustration, trailing back into the airport where a sheepish looking man is trying to work his microphone.

I'm wearing a red nothing of a dress and not even my jacket can keep me warm. I shiver as I'm listening, the man apologising for the inconvenience, bless his soul, and reassuring us that a flight will definitely be leaving tonight. The red eye.

I look to my watch, figuring I have about four hours to spend.

Those surrounding begin to question, though I don't waste my time. I figure the bars and restaurants will be crammed if I leave it any later, and I'm not in any position to freeze in the snow.

Wading my way through the sea of onlookers, I slip into the nearest café, a radiating warmth welcoming me. There's only one seat, and it's placed beside an old woman who (through what looks to be her fourth foamy beverage) is drunkly singing Christmas songs. I'm relieved when a young man picks up his briefcase and exits, leaving an open barstool beside someone in a uniform.

I take my seat, leaning over the counter to order a hot coffee with extra cream.

The stranger beside me sips from his glass, not looking anywhere but down.

There is a sense of irritation about his tense position, so I opt out of friendly chitchat, instead, prying my book out of my handbag and leafing to the page where Elizabeth kindly accepts Mr. Darcy's irresistible offer.

He's eloping her in an embrace, giving her a kiss worth remembering, when I feel the eyes of my friend on the right burning into my book. Sneakily, I slip my eyes from the page and catch his riveted expression, reading the blurb with interest.

I'm silently stunned by his features, handsome too colourless a word.

He's dark haired and blue eyed, with a jaw that could cut through the ice paving the road.

In that moment, he glances up, unknowing to my watchful eye.

He turns away at once, acting the least bit obvious.

I'm almost embarrassed, and then I see the smitten little smile stretch on his mouth as he sips his drink, looking to the television that's silently playing a screening of Home Alone.

A ferocious and demanding blush seeps to my cheeks, and I feel myself sinking further behind the cover of Pride and Prejudice.

"Another?" The barista asks, his wide, toothy smile screaming for a tip. I look to my bookworm of a friend on the right, who is shaking his head. The barista drops his niceness and returns to clearing the stickiness from the bar.

"I don't think I could drink another drop of eggnog if I tried." He says beneath his breath, though through nervousness do I hear it.

"And here I thought Marines didn't drink."

He continues looking at the silent television, though his attention has wavered. My push in conversation has broken through his tense exterior, and he's back to smiling.

"And I thought readers were supposed to be realists."

I frown. "I am a realist."

He looks to me from the corner of his eye, and there's a deep pang of heat in my lower belly.

"Then you'd know anyone in a war will drink."

I consider this and set down my book. "Are you on sick leave?"

He shakes his head. "Just finished my second tour."

"Congratulations," I say, "your family must be proud."

He hesitates on this, draining the last of the dregs from his glass. "Yeah."

I feel I've hit a weak area, so I return back to my book.

"You want a drink?" He then asks, and I feel the want to accept.

"Yes." I say, surprising both him and me.

Something of an extraordinary smile breaks onto his face, and I swallow my pride.

"I'm Damon."

"Elena." I reply.

"I'm going to have to lay off the eggnog for a while, Elena." He says, and just like that, I've forgotten all about Mr. Darcy.


	2. Christmas With A Stranger

_Hello, all!_

 _I'm so glad you're loving this story, as I'm loving writing it. Definitely more to come before Christmas is here!_

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Season Of The Soldier — Chapter Two: Christmas With A Stranger_

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

"What do you mean you won't be home until later tonight?"

"I can't help the delay, mama. It's either the early hours of the morning or not at all."

There was a pause. The strike of a match and the sizzle of a cigarette. I hear an inhale, and then a sigh. I can envision the small porch extended on to my childhood home, my mother sat on the swing, a cloud of smoke surrounding her as she has her nightly lemonade.

"I suppose it will have to do. Your father won't be pleased about you missing our Christmas Eve dinner, though."

"Daddy will have to get over it. I'm the one that's stranded, freezing cold and tired. I'm fantasizing about a warm bed and hot chocolate."

"Well, I'll have those two things on standby when you arrive, baby."

I smile softly against the receiver. "I can't wait to see everyone."

"Just hurry home." Says mama, and then she's gone, and the dial-tone is laughing at my misery.

Behind me, an agitated man is desperate to call his wife, pulling the phone from my hand before I had the chance to take my change from the machine. I roll my eyes, I leave the small corner. I return to the bar where my Mr. Darcy is waiting.

"How did she take it?" He asks.

I settle back into my seat, wrapping my fingers around the mug of whiskey spiced coffee. So far I'm lightly buzzed.

"She acted as if I was the one who demanded the plane be delayed."

Damon, the handsome stranger with a smile to kill, contemplated this. "Well, she has a point. You could have."

I act shocked. "And waste this pretty dress?"

He brushes the stubble on his upper lip, narrowing his eyes and playing along. What he says next sends a pang of heat to my lower belly.

"I don't think it's wasted at all. In-fact, I'm enjoying it thoroughly."

A faint hint of red dusts my cheeks, and I sip from my cup to wash the gigglyness from my mouth. There's a lipstick mark on the rim, and he's eyeing it with a sense of amusement.

"Dearest Elena," Damon says, "Why are you returning home to your parents and not your husband?"

The question takes me aback, though I keep a cool exterior.

"Because I don't have a husband, they're too much work."

"Is that so?"

"Mmmhmm."

"Do you speak from experience?"

I set my cup down, and idly brush a strand of hair from my face, it lands on my shoulder, exposing my mouth as it pulls down at a memory.

"That was invasive," Damon says with an echo of remorse. "I apologise."

"No." I lightly shake my head. "I was engaged once, though it ended badly."

"How so?" He asks, resting his elbow on the bar, the other on the back of his chair.

"His daddy was our mayor, soon to be retired prior to the propositions he got from bigger towns, larger cities. Matt, my fiancé, was running for the position his father neglected. It was everything to him. He slept, breathed, ate every ounce of it he could. It was three months after our engagement when things got rough, when I barely saw him because he was off travelling to meetings, work trips, other countless job orientated things I didn't like at the time." I breathe through my nose, brushing my arm as if to comfort myself, my past self that was so hurt and alone and fearful of the future.

"Our hometown is old fashioned, practically a portal to the nineteen fifties. Wives have the children, do the housework, and keep the weight off their feet. The husbands are those who fend for the money, for the social parties, for the food on the table. Highschool was fun. He was known, I was known, we'd be the couple to last forever, or so our yearbooks said. His mother would push for kids, for the topic of grandchildren and little pink babies that liked rattles and the smell of talcum powder. I remember standing in our apartment, holding a pregnancy test at seventeen and feeling sick. I can remember throwing up in the toilet and crying because I know I'd be trapped."

I take a moment to just stare, tears brimming to the surface of my eyes, closing them quick enough to swallow what saltwater wished to spill onto my cheeks. I part my lips and I force a smile. The whiskey is having it's effect on me.

"He was working in Chicago one summer, arranging meetings and preparing his team for the newest campaign. An outsider, a man from New Jersey and his wife had just settled into town, and now he was running for the position Matt wanted. I remember the nasty conversations we'd have, him speaking down the phone as if his competitor was on the other end, instead of his fiancé. One argument got too out of hand and he ignored me for three days. I think the topic was me wanting to go to Paris with my mama for her birthday." I go silent, and then I shake off a distractive thought. "Anyway, I decided to go visit him. I packed a small suitcase and got on the first flight to Chicago. His hotel room was empty when I arrived, and I remember going for lunch by myself. Though later in the evening, after a few phone calls, I tried the room again. And there he is, lowering himself into some cheap receptionist with funny teeth."

I'd forgotten Damon's presence, though his apologetic look brings me back to reality, and immediately I'm repelled by his pity. "Don't look at me like that." I say, and instantaneously, the expression is gone. Now he's a blank canvas, waiting for his next set of instructions.

"I'm guessing you then left him." He assumes.

"Yes, thankfully. We bargained that I wouldn't spread the story around, dirtying his name and potentially jeopardizing his position as mayor, and he wouldn't trap me into staying. He'd given me the money from our selling of the apartment, and that was that. I bought a first class ticket out of town, and here I am."

"Here you are." Damon agrees, stroking his stubble whilst he muses.

I finish the dregs of my drink and allow the whiskey to take it's full effect. I'm warm and soft, a hint of carefreeness about me.

"What about you, Soldier?" I say, swivelling the topic onto him.

Damon glances to the ceiling briefly, as if wishing he'd never asked any questions in the first place. I wait with patience until he's ready, and listen intently when he is.

"No wife. No fiancé. One girlfriend."

"Where is she now?"

"I don't know. I haven't spoken to her in four years. We broke up before I began my training."

"Was she the reason you went into training?"

"Yes and no."

He's wearing a lost expression, as if trying to mentally grasp something that isn't there. I'm about to comfort him when he speaks.

"I was nineteen, she was twenty seven. She had two children and an abusive husband. He was away in Afghanistan, serving, and I was here. She only saw me."

I'm taken aback, and he can sense it.

"I was with her for the better half of two years, and we saw each other when he was away. It ended in the June before I left, and he killed her when he found out. The children now live with their grandparents, and he's in prison."

I stare for a moment, watching the way he casually sips from his glass—a stranger in the wrong storybook. I go to apologise for his loss, though he shrugs it off.

Together, we sit, staring off and mentally analysing every detail of each-other's story. It's as if a scientist has dissected both of us, our organs, our innards, our deepest, darkest secrets spilling out for everyone to see. I suddenly feel very vulnerable, though I can't sense what Damon is feeling.

"Where are you spending Christmas?" I hear myself ask.

"In this café." I hear him answer. "My flight was cancelled."

"Come back with me." I say.

"What?"

"Come back with me."

Damon stares, a million thoughts projecting onto those eyes of never-ending blue; an ocean that could stretch for miles and millenniums. His face, now youthful looking, is boyish with it's innocence, it's confusion, and yet, it's longing.

I talk before he can deny. "It's ludicrous, and silly, and borderline crazy. Though from what I take it, right now you're out of luck, and so am I. You have nowhere to spend your leave, and I have a house full of people waiting and praying I bring home someone they can coo over."

"I don't like charity." He says.

" _I'm_ the charity. You'd be doing _me_ a favour."

He sits. He contemplates. He looks fearful.

"We don't know each other."

"Do I look like a killer to you?" I say with a raised brow.

It's then that a smile stretches on his face, an irresistible, delicious, hungry one that turns me into a pathetic pile of girlishness. I give him a hopeful look, and in return, he nods.

"One condition." He declares. "I'm not left alone with your family."

"That's reasonable enough. We're going to have to conjure up some type of fake meeting story, something they'll eat up. My mama is hard to lie to."

Damon nods. I think.

This is going to happen. I'm going to spend my Christmas with a stranger.

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

An hour has passed, and I'm waiting at the counter for my boarding pass.

The receptionist smells strongly of floral perfume, and she's wearing reindeer antlers for festivity. Her long manicured nails are scattering over the keyboard, sounding like a little army of mice tap-dancing.

A long ticket produces itself on the counter, and she signs something off on a slip of paper.

"I've replaced a few single passengers on the plane to get you as close to your girlfriend as possible." She says with a warm voice. "Merry Christmas!"

I give her a tight smile and a nod, walking off with the paper crisp and unrumpled in my hand. I'm going to have to adjust to the term 'girlfriend' if I want this story to sell.

My backpack is the only luggage I own, so I opt out of sending it on a jolly trip alone and keep it close. Elena isn't in the waiting area when I arrive, and I'm wondering if she's bolted out on our deal—but then I see her on the floor above, scanning through items in a small store.

I move up the escalator and past the small bars playing Christmas music.

At the far end, she's admiring a silk scarf of red and silver, something that would pair lovely with what she's wearing. And it's then, as I'm standing behind her, that I see the womanly curves in her figure. She has a round, tight bottom, long legs that strut elegantly beneath her dress, and as she turns, as her hair—so long and dark—brushes her back and slips from her face, I see her lips are plumper than I realised, and how they now form into a smile as she sees me.

I continue a casual walk down the corridor, and meet her in the open half of the accessory store.

"Do you like it?" She asks, brushing her fingers down the silk scarf once again, it's material sliding like sand through her grasp. I nod, and add my comment about how it would compliment her.

"Not for me." Elena says, almost longingly. "My little sister."

"A Christmas present?" I guess, and she nods.

I watch Elena pay, a new outlook on her, a new view of her. She's pretty, her simple beauty starting from her button nose to her catlike eyes. She grins at the male behind the counter, and takes her small bag, sifting into the corridor where she then pulls her jacket closer to her chest.

She's cold.

"I've got my ticket. The plane should be leaving in no less than forty minutes."

Elena nods, trying to stifle her now chattering teeth.

I take a moment to think, and then, much to her surprise, I gesture to the little Italian restaurant to our left. "Let's go eat some food. Warm you up a little."

"I don't have that much cash on me." She says, but I shake my head.

"My treat."


	3. Flying Home For Christmas

_Hello, all!_

 _I'm so pleased with the feedback to this story, and there's so much more to come!_

 _Is there anything you'd like to see in this story? Let me know._

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

We eat like kings, and through sheer delight, do we watch each other sample dishes.

Elena starts the meal off on a ration of bread, wanting to be polite and show her ladylike courtesy—though it's when we have fifteen minutes left, and only a quarter of red wine to go, that she finally gives into the temptation of the rich food.

I'm pushing my head forward, allowing her to feed me the last mouthful of dessert, when the overhead voice reminds us of the next flight due to be boarding.

We both know it's ours, and a sense of silence falls over us.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I ask, reviewing the bill from beneath the table—I don't want her to feel uncomfortable.

A sugary pink dusts Elena's cheeks, her warmth radiating over the length of the table. She doesn't need to say anything, her look of approval answering my question enough.

I pay, she thanks me, we leave with less than ten minutes to spare.

We head through customs one last time, and then it's a matter of hovering in the waiting room until we're called to board. She's cold again, and the blushing pigment has drained from her skin.

I shrug off my jacket and gesture it over. "Here," I say.

"No." Elena objects, "Then you'll get cold."

I ignore her protest, placing the heavy camouflage of my marine jacket on her shoulders. It's warm from my own body heat, and I see her shivering body give in to the comforting temperature.

With a shallow smile, she pushes her arms through the gaps and thanks me sheepishly.

To the right of us, an impatient family is arguing about the seating plan and who is giving Aunt Dorothy the plane tickets to Hawaii. On the left, a singular woman with blonde hair eyes her magazine, trying not to pay too much attention to her surroundings. I try to read what's on the cover, wishing to distract myself from the regretful thoughts I'm having.

It's the lying that's hard to swallow, knowing I'll be stepping off the platform and into the arms of a cheated family, tricking them into believing I'm the newest addition to their clan, the carer of their baby girl, the long-awaited son they've been wishing for. Along with the uneasiness, there is now some stress—stress for the expectations I have to live up to.

"Are you okay?" Says a small voice to my right.

I turn to see Elena in all her sleepless glory, eyes of a bottomless brown full and brimming with tired concern. I reassure with a signature smile, the crooked type that's bought me a lot of luck through the years. The apples of her cheeks are a light pink again, and against me, she slumps.

Another ten minutes pass, and when all positivity has gone, it's restored in the form of relief as we're called to the plane. We offer our tickets and wander through the many aisles, my ever controlling hand brushing the small of Elena's back. It's when we've passed the still arguing family, and uncaring blonde, that we realise how far away we've been seated.

Elena seats herself nearest to the window, scanning through our tickets as if there might be an un-see-able change in the numbers. A woman barges past, thrusting herself into the chair beside the girl with the red dress. I'm torn, and through the dilemma, do I lean to my lowest, reaching eye-level with Elena's ignorant neighbour.

At once, the woman addresses me with her upmost interest and attention.

I grin a boyish grin, my charm having the potential to melt the snow that wanders the wintery streets.

"M'am," I approach, resurrecting the southern accent I had lost through my days away from home. "I've just finished my second tour in the Marine Corps, and my lovely wife here has travelled all this way to welcome me back. Would you do me the biggest honour and allow me to sit next to her? We haven't seen each other in a mighty long time."

The woman blinks for a moment, scanning the space between me and Elena—and then, by the good grace of god, she smiles a merry, festive smile, standing up and wishing us a magical Christmas. I point her into the direction of her newly appointed seat, and fall into mine.

It's when she's out of sight that Elena laughs, amused and a little disbelieving.

"What?" I ask, stuffing my marine rucksack into the overhead compartment—the only luggage I have with me.

"That was," she pauses, " _compelling_."

"Compelling?"

"Magical. Like you had a little spell on her."

"Well," I grin, "it's the power of the smoulder."

Elena shakes her head with another laugh, turning to the window that offers a view of the snowy lights. The plane takes off between our tension, and our plans for what story we will tell.

It's when we're hours from home, that Elena falls asleep, and so do I.

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

I'm awoken to the sound of a struggle, and with a drowsy weight paralysing me, I gradually open my eyes, facing the ripped torso of my fictional boyfriend.

He's holding a pink thing in his arms, cradling it with a sense of care.

Behind him, there is a pair of legs and a wide smile.

I blink the blurriness from my eyes, slowly grasping the scene unravelling before me.

Damon is helping a blonde shell of a woman with her suitcase, meshing it into the overhead compartment whilst she stands, watching, and ogling, and complimenting.

He's breathless when he finishes, and she gives him a flirtatious clap of her hands.

"Thank you so much! Goodness knows what I would've done hadn't you been here to help." She says, sucking in her stomach and pushing out her chest. Damon, innocent yet forever a gentleman, bows his head in good grace, leaving with no more than a stroke on her arm.

He catches me staring, and I have no option but to yawn and act oblivious to the scene unravelling before me. He returns to his seat as I stretch out my soreness, noticing the small bag of food in front of me.

"What's this?" I ask.

"They were handing out food for those who hadn't eaten, and I grabbed you a few things in case you woke up peckish. I'd recommend eating the bacon sandwich. It's good."

I take his advice and shred open the packaging, lazily stuffing the edge of the bread into my mouth, chewing with my eyes closed. I'm still groggy from the abrupt wakeup.

"How long?" I mumble.

I sense he's amused, because his voice is somewhat humorous when he answers. "Three and a half hours."

I groan, turning into the chair that's a little too stiff, and a little too lumpy, and a little too everything uncomfortable. The bacon is sweet yet salty on my tongue, and I chew with slowness, curling more and more into Damon's side. His t-shirt is grey and tight against his upper body, and almost always is he warm. I take comfort in this, using him as my very own hot-water bottle. I suspect he doesn't mind, because as the minutes draw on, he's gradually shifting closer and closer to me, and by the time I've finished my sandwich, his cheek is resting against the top of my head.

It's then that I move, shifting to meet his usually mocking gaze, always a hidden joke there, lost in his ever controlled expression—though I jerk up too quickly, and his head is still bowed, and my lips brush his quickly and unavoidably.

I'm taken aback.

He's taken aback.

The little girl a few seats away giggles and gazes with adoration.

 _The happy soldier and his lovely girlfriend_ , she thinks.

The stranger and his companion, I think.

He's lowering his head down and kissing me again, and with both desire and want, I accept him.

I feel fingers on my cheek, and a thumb pulling on my chin, parting my lips with expertise. It's wet and warm and everything delicious, the little whiskers on his cheeks (due to an unshaven few days, no doubt) scratch me, and his rich cologne fills my nostrils. I inhale the smokiness of Damon, my hand ever-so lightly grazing his chest; muscles meeting my touch.

We're ripped away by the sudden and fearful jolt of the plane, and with terror do I release a squeak. Damon's hand travels from my cheek to my waist, keeping me close and protected. It's a flash of a movement, a quick click of nerves and bones and skin, like a shadow passing over a face—exposing a different side to it. The attentive affection has gone, and now he's a fighter, the soldier in brown, green and grey, saving lives and treated the wounded.

A horrified look possesses him, and I brush his cheek, touch the long slimness of his nose, forcing him to look at me—really look at me. "It's okay," I whisper, "it's just some turbulence."

Those eyes, a labyrinth of many blues, has darkened—like the sea, the further you go into it's depth.

And then, it's gone, and his smile—that wonky smirk that sends a knot of warmth to my lower stomach—is there, and I'm reassured once more that all is well.

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

I've escaped to the bathroom, and my face is dripping with cold water.

I use my hands as somewhat of a makeshift bowl, splashing myself again with the liquid-like relief.

I breathe through my nose, and glance up to see the light eyes of my fellow friend—the fighter—in the mirror. He's arrogant with his knowledge on this situation, and deep down, has some truth to it.

 _You'll never be able to pull it off,_ the wicked voice whispers; the tormented half of me.

 _Didn't you taste her? Her sweet mouth, her soft skin… You'll never be able to convince something so pure that you're nothing but evil._

I grip the work surface and release a long sigh, the sound a predatory purr, a snake-like hiss.

I want to shake myself from side to side, to throw the corrupt thoughts out of my head, through my earholes, nostrils, mouth. I want to purge every amount of wickedness in me.

There are three swift knocks on the bathroom door, and a faint forth.

I swallow back the adrenaline that's quaking every bone in my body, wiping the water off my face with the hem of my grey shirt. Elena is outside the door when I open it, her brown eyes just are fearful as they had been, back when the only thing separating us was our tongues.

Without hesitation, she barges in and closes the door behind her.

"What's wrong? Have I done something?" She asks, only for me to shake my head in disagreement. I hunch over the sink and bow my head, regaining consciousness with myself.

I feel her hand slide up my back, and I sigh.

How can two strangers be this comfortable with one another? Hours we have known each other, and yet decades doesn't feel much longer in comparison.

"Kiss me again." She says.

"What?" I ask.

"Kiss me again."

I turn my head, looking at her with an expression of nothingness—and then, she's against the door I was once too hesitant to open, and my mouth is in sync with her moving own; her lips a recently discovered sugar I've been deprived of.

This time, Elena purrs for me, reaching beneath my shirt and gripping what she can handle. I push my lower abdomen out, pinning her to the wall with my girth.

This is it. This is what I need to keep the wicked thoughts at bay.

"Damon." She whispers, my name feeling delicious in her mouth.

I feel the urge to rip the red dress off her body, to strip her to a bare nothing in front of me—though I refrain, knowing once I start, there would be no stopping.

 _This_ , I think, _is an addiction I'm going to have to try and maintain—for the sake of my health._


	4. Mine

_Hello, all!_

 _Enjoying the story?_

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Season Of The Soldier_ — _Mine_

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

I grip the armrest as we bounce back to land, the plane jolting with the grounded sensation.

Four and a half hours later, and we're here, together, in one piece.

Beside me, Damon is an ill shade of white, and sweat lines his forehead and palms. I rub the back of his hand with my pinkie finger, and the passengers applaud the pilots for our safe landing.

He looks to me, all blue eyes and dark hair and mystery, granting a smile that melts the worry away. We have a plan. We have the story. We're good to go.

We collect our carry-on luggage and fidget down the aisle, joining a sea of grunting people all wishing for the same thing—good food, bed, more good food, maybe an extra hour for sleep.

A flight attendant bids us a Merry Christmas, and hand-in-hand, we make our way off the plane and into the airport. From the view of the window, I see a bottomless sky and mounds of white snow, ice raining on those desperate for warmth. I wonder, with a squeeze to Damon's tight fist, where my family is.

"Let's go collect your bags, and then we can start searching for them." He says, as if reading my troublesome mind. I look to his flushed face and nod with abidance, letting him lead me away.

Another five minutes pass and we're by the convey-belt, watching suitcases fly by, each of them not mine.

"Do you want me to jump back on another flight?" Damon then says, out of the blue, stunning me. I realise I'm nervously biting my fingers, scanning the crowd with worry. At once do I shake my head, curling into his side for reassurance. It's bizarre how natural it is to fake an affectionate relationship.

It's then that a red bag swings itself around the corner, and quickly do I leap for it.

Amusement lines Damon's face, and with curiosity do I ask why.

"Everything on you… it's all red. Was this done strategically? Or a nice mistake?"

I give him a who-knows shrug, grinning as I heave the handle from the case and begin dragging it along.

He says something—and I'm in the middle of asking him what it was—when I hear it. I hear the bark of my enthusiastic father, and my squealing mother as she sobs every time I come home.

Suddenly, I'm eloped in arms, and kisses, and is that a leg?

"Welcome home, baby!" My mom cries, throwing a ring of silver tinsel around my neck—a festive twist on a Hawaiian lei. I try to breathe through it all, subconsciously searching for the soldier and his worried expression. I don't want him to freak out. I need him here.

Though when I break through the extended hug, I don't see him anywhere.

"Where is he?" I choke, twisting around in my father's manly grip.

"Who?"

"Damon."

I'm on the verge of panic, and then I see a man in camouflage, kneeling in front of a little boy, showing him his marine dog-tags. I sigh and smile, and sigh some more.

"Who's that?" My father asks.

"My boyfriend, daddy."

My mother stands there with an open mouth, looking to me, to the man in camouflage, to her husband.

"Oh, Elena!" She weeps, throwing me into another hug, a form of gratitude for giving her the best present yet. "Why didn't you tell us? We'd have been so excited!"

I refer back to the planned story—the lie.

"I didn't know if he was going to be finished in time, mama. He's in the Marine Corps."

"The Marine's! Harold, did you hear that? Our baby has a boyfriend fighting for the country!"

Though suddenly, he's also missing.

"Harold?" Squeaks my mother, looking for her husband.

My stomach then drops, and I see my father smacking Damon on the back, shaking his hand ferociously.

Those blue eyes look to me, wide and fearful.

I'm relieved when he finally gives in, sharing a rough hug with my father; who has always been a hugging man.

"I never thought this day would come." Says my mother, crying again.

I shake my head. "Neither did I."

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

We're in the back of her father's car, and she's so beautiful.

A younger image of her mother, who has hair of an equal brown, and eyes just as catlike. Now, her parents are beaming, sharing occasional glances and touches to the arm. I look to see if there is any joy in Elena, any fragment of honest happiness, though there is only misery, and more tiredness. She only smiles when she looks me in the eye, and even then, I see a long for something more.

She's unhappy. She feels as if this shouldn't be happening.

I contemplate leaving again, though the car is already turning the corner, and the airport is out of sight.

"Are you okay?" I whisper against her hair, tasting soap and strawberries.

Elena hums, moving herself further against my chest.

I do an affectionate thing and kiss her forehead, her cheek, warming her shoulder with my rubbing touch. This sends her into a state of sleep, and before I know it, soft snores are coming from those pink lips.

"Poor little darling," coos her mother, "she's had such a hard day. She almost wasn't going to come. Though you must know all about that."

I want to shake my head, to ask more and peer deeper into Elena's life—though I remain good and married to our story, our little lie that is causing so much genuine happiness.

"She barely slept on the plane," I say, wanting to answer with a small amount of truth, "there was too much turbulence."

Her father, Harold, tuts and shakes his head, mounds of grey hair waving. He's a larger man, with a pot belly and a wise beard to match. I respect him. I feel as if I know him. I watch his kind eyes in the rear-view mirror.

"The rest of the family are unfortunately asleep, son. So you'll have to be quiet when you get in." He explains.

"Yes, sir."

We drive a little longer, and then, down a narrow and rocky path, we drive for a little longer. All I see is the dark bark of many trees, the moon occasionally peeping through the trunks, letting me know it's there, that I'm not alone in any of this.

We eventually reach a house, or a greater shell of a mansion—it's old architect partially hidden by the fall of night-time. We're here. I'm here. There's no turning back now.

There are no childproof shortcuts, no locks on the windows, no wise hand to lead you through the unknown. The gun is unloaded, the war is over, the ruckus of my past few years is behind me. I'm in the arms of safety and her bosom is keeping me warm. Here, there is a bed, a heated fireplace, a table where people eat and no such silly thing as rations of food. Even seeing a blanket, a pillow case, a mirror that isn't cracked or a reflection that isn't from the silver of a spoon. A life. An existing room of protection. It's beautiful. It's inviting. It's home.

"Come, son. You look as if you've had a rough journey getting here." Says Harold, and he couldn't be more right.

The motor is off, the gentle purr of the vehicle nothing but a deadly silence in the mouth of darkness. Elena—the angel who has saved me from one more lonely cabin stay—is slumping against me, heavy with sleep.

I don't wake her. I don't try to stir her. I pull her slumbering body from the leather of the car, lifting her, and carrying her through the snow that now falls; white specs of ice in her curly hair.

Harold unlocks the door, and inside, a roaring fire is roasting the room no-one occupies.

With a guiding hand, he leads me through the rooms, the corridors, the staircases that are spiralled and curved and everything wonderful. I carry his daughter—his baby girl—into a large room where a bed of silk and satin lays. I place Elena on top of the bedding, where she turns into the pillows and breathes in the scent of her much missed home.

Harold squeezes me on the shoulder and wishes me a Merry Christmas, bidding me a goodnight and heading off to bed. The door is closed. There is a scarce amount of light coming through the windows, courtesy of the ice filled sky. I'm without a jacket, though I'm still hot; heavy with a heat that's from stress and anxiety and worry for everything that's happened. I pull the shirt off my back and over my head, sitting on the chair-like-windowsill that overlooks the grounds of Elena's childhood home.

Frost is on the glass, and my breath melts some of it away.

I rest against the wall, the dog-tags from my marine days laying against my torso—a necklace with my identity, a noose that says 'I've had to almost die to get these.'

I play with the silver, rolling the metal over my thumb, my palm that's calloused from so many days of hard work. Behind me, Elena is watching, though I don't see her until I return to reality; my realm of thoughts having gotten too dark.

I turn my head at just the right moment and see her wandering eye, cheeks red and hot from the heavy heat of my marine jacket. She frowns, and then her hand is out, open and waiting for my touch.

I move to it, a magnet and it's addicted form of metal, a heart and it's one true beat—gravity and it's axis.

Standing before the bed, I thread my fingers through hers, watching them with a childlike sense of curiosity. Elena grips and squeezes and tenses her palm, and when I look to her, I see an unsatisfied hunger that needs to be replenished.

We are two strangers looking for a cure, a remedy that can help our disease of loneliness. Two issues, two different worlds, one antidote, one existing form of medication. Our lips. Our mouths that long to touch, to take the pain away. I lower my head until I'm just tasting the flavour of her tongue.

She opens herself up to me—mind, body, soul.

And I take, a selfish monster who needs it.

I dive deeper into the bed and take the innocence that she's offering.

 _Mine. Mine. All mine._


	5. Merry Christmas

_Hello, all!_

 _Chapters should be coming in quicker now._

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Season Of The Soldier - Merry Christmas_

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

The springs of the bed creak with every thrust, and I'm having to place my palm over her mouth to keep the moans at bay.

We're quick. We're desperate. We're both trying to escape the realism of this very unnerving situation.

Elena parts her legs needingly, and I'm frantic with my pace, reaching above our heads to grip the headboard; preventing it from slamming into the wall. The dog-tags bounce off my bare chest, and a sheen of sweat covers my forehead and torso.

"Please." She whimpers against the saltiness of my hand, our two stares merging into one craving gaze.

The gruffness of my breath is getting louder, and just as the ornaments on her bedside table are beginning to shake, a long whine escapes Elena, and then she's quivering in the midst of her childhood room.

I pull myself out whilst her inner walls contract, knowing we have no condom, no form of protection. I ensnare my palm around the length of myself, and begin massaging upwards, needing to finish somewhere that isn't inside of her.

"Let me help." Elena whispers, and through my confusion, I watch as she comes to her knees and pulls the weight of my cock into her mouth. I'm fat in width and long in length, and her lips stretch thinly around the size.

"That's good." I whisper, laying my head back and closing my eyes. "That's really good."

She tugs on me with her tongue, chocking and gargling her way until I release a spurt of something that she swallows.

We fall into the cramped bed, exhausted from our unexpected session.

"Merry Christmas." Elena whispers, and outside, I hear the birds begin to sing.

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

Morning light comes through the curtains at sharply seven o'clock, though I'm still in bed, covered by the arm of my soldier. He sleeps peacefully, a gradual snore coming through his long nose, disheveled hair of black covering his face. Throughout the night he awoke, getting up, looking round the room, and then slipping back into bed. I don't want to mention it, but part of me is curious as to why.

The Marine Corps, or so I speculated. An experience like that is bound to give you paranoia and bad nerves.

Down the corridor, I hear a shuffling of feet, along with yawns and hushes to be quiet.

The house begins to awaken, each family member waking from their slumber, trotting downstairs where breakfast will first be served. I don't want to be the last one out of bed, so I slip from beneath the weight of Damon and head into the bathroom.

I clean myself up, using one hand to comb through the nest of hair on my head, and the other to spray deodorant under each arm. When I finally look somewhat presentable, I return to the bedroom where I kiss Damon's cheek, once, twice, three times—causing him to stir back to a state of consciousness.

"I'm going downstairs to face the family. Do you want to come with me? Or would you like to sleep more?"

He doesn't even answer, throwing himself out of bed and into the bathroom where he slams the door.

I flush a deep scarlet, having seen him fully naked in the light of day.

I wait patiently on the edge of the bed until he's ready.

He returns in a set of sweatpants and shirt to match, looking relaxed, comfortable—a lot like myself, who is wearing a pair of flannel pyjamas.

"We look very… believable." I say, grinning.

"I think so too." Damon agrees. "This was the only comfortable thing I had in that little rucksack, and I'm planning on binning the uniform as soon as I get a chance." He shakes his head with a passing thought, though I don't pry on what he's thinking.

We head downstairs, hand-in-hand, entering where in the sea of presents, there is a breakfast table laden with food, and a crowd of people to occupy it.

"Morning, dears!" Calls my mother, setting a pitcher of milk beside my father.

My eldest sister, Caroline, turns with a sceptical brow, stunned to see the dark body of mystery beside me.

"Holy shit." She chokes, and my father shuns her down at once.

"This is Elena's boyfriend. Damon." My mother proudly says, "He's in the Marine Corps."

A silence falls over the table, and then one of Caroline's offspring flies out of the kitchen and curls his arms around my leg, chanting 'Aunty 'Len.'

I rub his blonde head of hair, and smile through the nervousness.

"Sit down! Sit down! We have presents to open." Orders my father, pulling out two chairs. I sit closest to my youngest sister, Erin, who is playing with her mobile under the table, and allow Damon to perch beside my father. We're served pancakes and bacon and scrambled eggs that are a perfect shade of white and yellow. Damon looks to his plate like it might jump out at him, though nether-the-less eats, savouring each bite.

I talk to Caroline's husband about the flight and how delayed we were, and he shares the events of last night, and how Aunt Hilda from Idaho did a round of tequila shots and began a Mexican wave at the church.

"As you can imagine, it was wild."

"Clearly."

"Oh, and you're missing out the best bit!" Caroline added. "Guess who broke up?"

"Matt and his wife." My little sister said before Caroline could.

Caroline narrows her eyes, but then turns to me with a brilliant smile. "How great is that?"

"Perfect." I say, stabbing the bacon on my plate with a fork, shovelling it into my mouth.

Beside me, I feel Damon tense, though he doesn't say anything. Instead, he begins a topic with my father, discussing the ins and outs of his latest tour.

"You were stationed in some pretty rough areas then, son."

"I was top in all of my classes, and ranked pretty high in every team I was in. I was sent to the rough and the roughest."

Richard, Caroline's husband, is leaning closer, wishing he was a part of the conversation instead of feeding the little pink thing of a baby in his arms.

"And you came home in one piece." My father says with a grin, his beard twitching up on either end.

"That I did, sir."

"Did anyone die?" A little voice at the end of the table asks. I peer over to see blonde hair and brown eyes, too short to look fully over the table.

"Tobias!" Caroline barks.

"It's alright." Damon says, shrugging. "In every war there is a little death." He says, rephrasing a potentially nasty answer into something a child would kindly understand.

"Like Uncle Jer." Tobias says, quieting the running conversations.

Damon frowns, his eyes forming into a state of confusion—though my mother changes the topic before any questions can be asked.

"Present time!" She yells. "Finish up your breakfast, kids."

It's when everyone is around the tree, that I take a moment to whisper into Damon's ear a quick introduction to every family member.

"You have Caroline and her husband, Richard. They have two children, Tobias and Tabatha, the baby girl. Mom and Dad, Harold and Linda. Little Amy, my youngest sister… and then—"

"Uncle Jer." He says.

I take a brief moment to look into those concerned eyes of forever blue, how they study the crowd of people on the floor and their happy faces.

"Jer was my brother." I whisper. "I don't talk about him."

I feel a hand on my waist, and realise I'm being pulled into Damon's comforting side. I swallow down the emotion that threatens to rise, and rest my cheek against his neck.

There is a quick flash, and I turn a second too late, seeing Amy with the family camera.

I wince, now knowing they have photographic evidence that Damon is real, and I can't fool them into believing he was figment of their imagination.

Finally, we sit according to my mother's seating plan, Damon ending up in an old leather armchair, and me pressed against the front of it. He squeezes my shoulder with a sense of comfort, though I'd much rather be pulled into his lap. My mouth twitches at the thought, and I can't help but rename him as my own personalized version of Mr. Darcy.

The presents are dished out, and thankfully, each label is signed from "Elena + Damon" – his name added in a frantic panic on the plane ride. Amy opens the scarf I bought her in the airport, the colour suiting her skin lovely, just as I thought – Richard rips into a pair of Homer Simpson socks, a quote about being a 'great dad' written on the front – and I pull the paper off a personalised notebook, the parchment thick and cream coloured; my inner writer swooning.

"What's this?" Damon asks, a gift being placed into his lap.

"You didn't think you'd be sitting here with nothing, did you?" My father says, something of a smug grin on his bearded face.

"I arrived last minute, I didn't 'expect' at all."

"Linda is the true Misses Christmas, son. She could pull a Christmas present out of her—"

" _Harold_."

"Sorry, dear."

Damon tears into the present with an unreadable expression on his face, and then, in the midst of snowman paper, there is a hardback book with the family name on. _Gilbert_.

I recognize the cover, knowing what wonders lay inside.

The pages inside are blank, the edges rimmed with gold and corners marked with the Gilbert name. On the first page, there is a picture of our ancestor holding up the first version, surrounded by a pile of many others.

"It's a journal, son." Harold explains. "You store in it the best moments of your life, and when you're halfway through your time, you get another, for the later stages. I've just began my second."

Damon's forehead wrinkles down, and his lips tense into a state of guilty appreciation.

He doesn't know how to thank the man he's lying to, so instead, he gives him somewhat of a rough hug.

"You're welcome." My mother says with clasped hands and a teary smile.

I feel a bond growing through the dishonesty of our lie, and I can't help but admit that I like it.

How long can we keep this up?


	6. The Hurricane of Hurt

_Hello, all!_

 _It's been a while since I posted, and I contemplated whether continuing this story or not, given it isn't exactly Christmas time any more._

 _I was extremely busy during the holidays, though if people are still wanting to read, I'll still continue to write._

 _A better-late-than-never happy new year!_

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

Moss grew on the shoulder of the house, seeping into the bricks that were crumbled with age.

In the wintery light of day, I could see the tiers of each floor, the stone pathways that stretched through the gardens of Gilbert land. The green of grass and leaves was unseen, snow coating everything, a blanket of white that the children constantly dove in, overlooked by the adults who posed for pictures and sipped hot beverages.

Elena had suggested a walk through the yard, both of us bundled in thick layers of clothing (courtesy of Linda and Harold), trudging through the metres of sloshy ice, each footstep crunching like a rustling chip packet.

Our trek led us into the beyond, the woodland almost comparingly similar to an old folklore fairytale, gracious with it's organic setting.

Yes, the view was breath-taking, though it seemed all I could stare at was her, and her nose as it reddened, her lips that constantly needed licking, her gloved hands that gestured to small parts of the forest, where there was always a story to tell.

She was beautiful, that was undeniable. Though she wasn't the type of beautiful I went for.

I went for women who smoked cigarettes and wore red lipstick, who hated their natural beauty and bleached every inch of their hair. I like messes, whirlwind minds and forked tongues.

I didn't like innocence, vulnerability, a purity that could melt my tar black soul into a happy oblivion. Though she carried it so well, so perfectly, that I _did_ find myself more intrigued, more curious, more hungry for a glimpse, a face, a corner I hadn't seen before.

And now, as I stared, as I had been since our first encounter, she called me out on it.

"You look at me like that a lot. Do I bother you or something?"

"What?"

Elena stopped, turning with a shrug to her shoulders. "You frown at me."

"I frown?"

"Yes."

"I'm observing." I correct.

"Observing with anger?"

One corner of my mouth pulls, forming a smirk that is crooked with amusement.

"Unfortunately that's just my default setting. Seriousness. I was in a war, after all."

Her warm eyes soften with the thought, and she mirrors my own smile, continuing to walk.

We push past the once blooming rose buses, the flowers that would spring in summertime; daffodils, lilacs, bluebells all hiding from the wrath of December's arrival. The snow begins to fall again, and white spots begin to appear in her hair; her skin that is so warm, so olive, like a splash of bright colour on a blank canvas. Further we go, the house a spec of black in the horizon, the thick of the forest taking us, deeper, deeper… until—

We find shelter.

It's small, nothing in comparison to the mansion but north of our walk. Though it's beautiful, in a childlike, mythical kind of way.

Elena pulls a key from her pocket and opens the door, and together, we enter.

"It was once my grandmother's cottage." She explains, closing the door behind us, shutting away the icy cold. "She wanted to live on the land her husband had built on, though couldn't bring herself to be in the house when he died. My father built her this little cottage so she could remain close, but not too far away. The family have barely touched it since she died, though I like coming here. I wrote my first book on that writing desk."

In the corner there is a little table, dusty classics lining the shelves above. I could easily imagine Elena sitting before it, pouring her creativity onto a page- crying during sad scenes, laughing during funny ones—her fingers whizzing like bullets over a keyboard, or scribbling roughly into a notebook.

"When is the last time you wrote?" I ask, watching as she crouches before the fireplace, striking a match and tossing the flame into the logs. It started small, though soon grew into a blazing inferno, heating the living room where almost everything was dusty.

"Not in a while." She said, her voice so hoarse. "I lost my muse when I moved into the city."

I begin peeling the top layer of my clothing off, setting it on the leather armchair that is piping hot next to the open fire. I sit amongst the cushions and watch as she begins warming her brittlely thin fingers.

"Perhaps you could try and get some inspiration here." I say, watching her every move.

Though she frowns.

"Perhaps." She says, and I leave the topic back out in the cold, and move onto the warmth of now.

Elena makes a pot of tea out in the tiled kitchen, fishing out the biscuits she brought from her pocket. We sit together, no television, no distractive string of emails, no war to drag our attention away—simply staring out the window where the afternoon drifts, drinking, eating, laying amongst the pillows.

We're down to two layers of clothing each, and the skin of her midriff is exposed, my hand grazing the exposed flesh as she lays her head upon my chest.

I feel pleasantly elated, thinking back to just a few short weeks ago, when I was submerged in the chilling cold of the camp room, doing push-ups to stay warm, my last ration of food long gone. How different the world is when you're actually living in the dregs of it.

I compared this moment to heaven and that to hell, and as Elena turned her cheek, the bone of her nose resting against my jaw, I couldn't help but thank whoever was controlling my fate.

"Where would you of gone?" She whispered, her voice barely heard. "If we hadn't of met."

My thumb grazes that free strip of her skin, clenching my teeth together out of frustrated habit. I didn't want to answer this question, though there was an understanding of loyalty and honesty between us.

"My father had a family cabin up in Maine." I begin. "My brother and I travelled up there together when we left home, and continued the tradition even after our parents died. He was the only family I had left, and he was involved in a car accident last June. I was going to go up there this year, pay my respects as the last standing member."

This hurts her in a way I don't understand, her eyes gleaming with sentiment that draws me in, the darkest, emotionless parts of me wanting to feel, wanting to experience something other than this dread.

Her fingertips brush my cheek, delicately, softly, and I wonder what she sees in me that I don't.

" _Damon_." Elena mumbles, her voice so thick.

"Don't." I dismissively say, moving my face from her warm hands. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm broken."

A reassuring smile claims her lips. "I'm not pitying you. I'm envious of your strength."

And to that, I want to laugh. Though I refrain.

If only she knew what I was going to do up in that cabin.

"Damon." She whispers again, and I turn.

Her soft, parted lips claim mine once again, and gently she massages me to bliss with her tongue; the bitterness forgotten about, leaving me in a state of harmony.

Later, we walk back to the house together, ready for Linda's famous Christmas dinner. Crackers are pulled, paper hats are worn, meat is carved. I pose for pictures with people who I'm lying to, though it's starting to feel more believable, more truthful.

Elena kisses me on the cheek and her sister compliments how nicely we fit together, comparing us to pieces of a puzzle, edging correctly and forming a pretty picture.

I start to see it too.

I'm starting to see her more clearly.

Beautiful, timeless, wonderful angel, how have you strolled so untarnished into my life?

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

The hands of the clock twist, and the seven o'clock bells chime from the church, people swarming out from its welcoming doors.

I'm waiting by the car with my sister, her sneaky cigarette disintegrating within seconds, her long, desperate puffs filling the air with smoke.

"Caroline, they're coming."

She yelps, dropping the butt to the floor, smooshing it out with her boot.

Nobody in the family knew of her habit, and she didn't want to be setting a bad example for her children. Though motherly life was stressful, and the classic Virginian housewife would never give into such a deadly sin.

' _Tobacco kills'_ our teacher would preach, handing around glass jars of black fluid, comparing it to the tar on a smoker's lungs. It was enough to keep me off the stuff through highschool, though I tried it during college, at least with a boyfriend like Matt.

Luckily, I never had an addictive personality, though I couldn't say the same for the rest of my family.

Aunt Hilda tottered her way through the parking lot, hustling and bustling with her cardigan, the reign of snow not easing up.

"Elena!" She called, spotting me from a mile away.

I enveloped her in my long arms, squeezing close. "Have you started any Mexican-waves this evening?"

She transferred her warmth to my sister, looking mournful as she spread her comfort between the two of us. "Not likely, dear. I'm still reeling from the last embarrassment."

"Nonsense." Caroline shook her head. "You brightened that day up."

Aunt Hilda grumbled something about a lousy priest, stuffing herself into the back seat of the car, coughing impatiently.

We travelled over to the north of town, collecting more people, placing more dishes of food in the trunk of Caroline's Volvo. Family and friends asked about the children, about the emergency procedure performed on my father a year ago. Though mostly, they tucked into the gossip of my new boyfriend, itching to spread this like butter on bread.

"Where is he now?"

"At home, helping Richard with the party decorations."

"What does he look like?"

"He's handsome."

"What's his name?"

"Damon."

I felt like I was being interviewed, my every word mentally assessed by the judge and jury of Virginia.

Thankfully, we arrived back home no later than eight, the house booming with cheery music that sent Aunt Hilda into a whirl of happiness. Damon answered the door in a grey jumper and stonewashed jeans, leaving a few people speechless, whilst others insisted they must get a picture later.

I carried in quiches, platters of sausage rolls and berry tarts, pies with extra cream and sweet crusts. The living room was overflowing with people, all blowing party horns and laughing at the excitement of it all.

Damon was smiling, something wide and contagious opposed to secretive and smug. He laughed as Aunt Hilda made a beeline for the tequila, and wrapped his arm around my waist when I shrugged off my jacket and gloves.

I was wearing a disgustingly tacky jumper, a large reindeer knitted on the front, a red nose peeing from the wool. Damon tugged on the bobble, pulling me in.

"You look gorgeous." He said, and my tan skin flushed, appearing rosy gold.

No one was listening, watching, even remotely paying attention. He was saying this to me, for the sake of my ears and not others. This was for us.

I gazed into his blue eyes, so captivating, so bottomless.

The music continued to play, though I couldn't hear a word, enthralled by the man before me.

" _The party's on – the feeling's here._

 _That only comes – this time of year._

 _Simply – having – a wonderful Christmas time."_

"Damon, I—"

A ruckus of applause caused me to stutter in silence, and arriving on time was Kelly and Brookland Donovan, shortly followed by Matt. His surveying eyes fell on mine, and my stomach boiled.

He was here.

I turned my cheek, feeling every muscle in my body stiffen.

Damon brushed my back, and as if by telepathy did he instinctively know who this blonde haired boy was.

"The ex." He said, though I couldn't open my mouth to speak.

I hadn't seen him since the separation, since I'd received the cheque of money titling us severed.

Never had he attended one of these parties before, though I had a good guess as to why.

He was recently divorced, and he was here to win me back.

"I need some fresh air." I whispered into Damon's grey sweater, prying myself from his protective hold and into the kitchen where pie was being halved and served.

Every inch of my body was inflamed with fury, and the heat from the oven was baking my skin even more.

"We need more quiche." My mother sighed, people overflowing the house with their excitement and hunger.

"I'll go out and get some."

"No, sweetie. It's alright."

"I want to." I protest, pulling my father's jacket from the hook. "What kind?"

"Well, any that they have." She stuttered, watching as I slipped through the back door and into the frosty cold.

I needed to get away. I needed to not be near him and his poisonous aura.

I slid into the family truck and pulled out the pocketed key, firing the engine and speeding off into the wintery oblivion.

 _Free. Free. I needed to feel free._


	7. Solemn Soldier

_Hello, all!_

 _I got a question the other day asking how long the story will continue for, and I believe it will be no more than five - six - seven chapters. Though more Delena stories will be written this year / in the future. I hope you're all enjoying!_

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

The truck wasn't going fast enough, and as I edged my foot down on the pedal, the engine gave a disgruntled roar of protest.

"Idiot!" I cussed to no one in particular, Matt's controlling gaze sweeping through my thoughts like piercing lights parting a murky ocean, invading me and everything I had built during his departure.

Hot, welcoming air blew from the dashboard fan, melting what frost had built on the windows. White, white was everywhere, the snow practically inescapable; mountains collectively forming in and around the road, wearing down the tires speed and structure.

Ahead, I see a small, cabin-like-building, the only form of shelter for miles.

Desperately, I shut off the windscreen wipers, turning into the populated car-park where the only space left is beside a blue Volvo; the gap cramped, giving me barely any wiggle room. Savouring the last moments of warmth, I struggle out the door and make a beeline for the entrance; candlelight and the scent of stale beer greeting me.

There's a flash of a camera bulb, and my eyes are darken by the harshness, falling against the door as people surrounding laugh.

"Welcome to Montano's! Your picture here will last forever!" Hoots a blonde man behind the bar, pinching the polaroid of my surprised face between his fingers. Above the cabinet of liquor is a wall of pictures, and mine is now wedged between two blurred ones. I struggle for breath.

"Come on in." Says the man, and I fidget my way to a barstool, sinking into the crowd of raring customers. People are eating, are drinking, are having dinner by the log fire. I see an old lady that goes to church with Aunt Hilda, my father's dentist and his grandchildren, pitchers of foamy beer, plates of pork, of turkey, of beef, cakes lathered in custard, ice cream, and chocolate.

My stomach rumbles, and I remember I have to get the quiche before I return home.

The barman sets a complimentary glass of mauled wine in front of me, and I sip guiltily, going over in my mind what a horrible person I am for leaving Damon behind—something I promised I wouldn't do, his only condition being an easy enough to grant.

My lower lip begins to wobble, and I rest my forehead in my palm, feeling my skin itch with the cold from outside.

How could Matt do this? How could I do this?

I gulp more wine.

"You alright?" says the man, drying a pint glass with a large cloth. "You don't look so good. You been drinking already?"

I lightly shake my head, only staring into the wood of the bar.

He's silent for another minute, and then he introduces himself. Alaric. Ric for short.

"Elena." I mumble. "Gilbert."

"Gilbert. You Linda and Harold's daughter?"

Glancing up, surprise takes my once troubled features. "Yes."

"Well hey! I've known them for years."

A softened smile takes my mouth. "They're very well known."

He goes back to pulling beers, serving more complimentary wine (which I later find out has been made by his wife, a small hobby) and chatting casually with the people who are merry in the face. Children dance around with cloudy lemonade, people pull crackers, confetti is everywhere.

I know I should be at home, but now it feels tainted, like a drop of blood in a bowl of milk. He has poisoned, he has infected, he has diseased. And then, through my bitter state, I think I hear his voice, and instantly blame the homemade brew, pushing it away from me.

I straighten out my tense back, and then I turn, and that's when I see him.

He's here – Matt – and he's talking to me.

His voice is undecipherable, a muffled sound under the haze of the ocean, not sinking into my head, my brain. I frown, and then I glare, and then tears reach my eyes.

"What do you want?" I brashly say, piercing through the temporary deafness, hearing every chattering table now go silent, our conversation being a new source of entertainment.

"Elena, we need to talk."

My name feels dirty in his mouth, and I can't help but express my disgust.

"You need to leave me alone."

"You're causing a scene." Matt says, leaning forward. "And you're drunk."

He's red in the face, possibly prior to the cold outside. Though I see sweat, like he's ran to catch up with me, his skin like the film around a pus boil.

"I've had one glass of wine." I object, already giving in to his questions. "Go away."

The barman stalks over with a fresh pint glass in his hand, wiping and washing and drying all in the same quick movement.

"Is he bothering you?" Alaric asks.

"Yes."

"Elena." Matt objects, glaring into me.

"Leave." I say.

"I'm running for Mayor, I have the authority to—"

"No you don't. This is _my_ land, pal."

Matt's upper lip curls, and I can foresee what could've been my future in that very irritated action, knowing what brutality came after such an expression. His blue eyes, so harsh in comparison to my soldier's, heavily bore into me, and then with a shove off the bar, he's gone again.

Relief pushes a breath out of me. "Thanks." I say.

"No problem." Ric mutters, shaking his head in disapproval. I feel as if I've dirtied his humble abode, soiling it with my past and present, leaving behind nothing but havoc.

Wiping my sweaty hands on the wool arms of my hideous reindeer sweater, I abandon the glass of homemade wine and slide into the ladies restroom, thankful it's deserted.

My fingers are cold to the bone, my skin wet from the chill, demanding warmth at once. I turn on the hot tap and stick my hands under the faucet, melting away the numbness.

I wonder how long I should stay here, if I should wait until the clock turns twelve to venture out, not wanting to run into Matt once more—or worse, have him 'run' into me, probably with his shiny black Mercedes. Or maybe I should just ask for somebody to escort me home, make out as if I'm raging drunk, needing a cab.

Matt wouldn't ambush a taxi driver, would he?

 _No_ , I inwardly answer, angry at myself for speculating, for over thinking.

My hands are now red and the water is blistering. I shut off the tap and pull some paper towels from the machine.

 _Stop it_ , I scold myself. _You're strong and independent, and you need to march home and face the music._

I drag myself back into the bar, where people continue to laugh and play, though the occasional person follows me with their eyes, judging, as Virginian folk usually did.

I fasten my father's jacket around me, and give a small wave to Alaric, who looks equally as wary, before sliding back into the cold, longing for the warmth of a steaming bath and hot fire. My footprints are crunching through the snow, and my hand is locked around the handle of the van, yanking out and heaving myself in.

 _Damon_ , I think to myself, _I need to see Damon._

I stop off on the way home, fetching a few more pies and a cheese quiche from the supermarket, knowing (aside from my maddened self) that no poor soul would dare venture out in this snow, even if the food _did_ need desperate restocking. It was an unreal type of cold, perhaps the harshest I've felt in a long time, and I couldn't wait to get back into the warmth and to see him. To see my soldier I've so selfishly abandoned.

I pull up onto the drive, hiccuping from that shameful glass of wine I had, struggling with the bags back into the house. Thankfully, Matt's Mercedes is gone—a car he's driven since his first election, back when we were freshly together— and I stride back into the kitchen, frostbitten yet smiling.

My mother is depressing with her frown.

"I have pie and quiche!" I announce, setting the paper bags on the work surface; the brown material now mushy from the specs of snow.

"He's gone." She says.

"Who's gone?"

"Damon."

My lower belly is hot with pain, and my mouth is dry. I swallow nothing but air, the roof of my mouth tacky and tongue like sandpaper. "What do you mean he's gone?"

Beyond the kitchen door, there is more singing and laughing, people unbeknownst to my departure.

"He left. He went, Elena."

"Well, _why_?" I demand.

Caroline enters with a platter of half-eaten crab cakes and two empty champagne glasses, eyeing the silent tension between mother and me.

"What's going on?" My sister says.

"Damon isn't here." I answer.

"Call him."

I shake my head without another word, knowing we ever exchanged numbers, last names, favourite colours—it was simply _"hello, come stay in my house."_

 _Foolish_ , I inwardly scold myself, blinking back the tears. _Of course he was going to leave._

"Though why?" Caroline whispers.

"Well," my mother clears her throat, re-situating how she's leaning against the counter, "after you left, he came into the kitchen and asked where you were, and as I was telling him about the quiche, he saw this picture on the fridge." She unclenches her fist, and crumpled, ruffled, and dishevelled is a photograph of my brother in his uniform, sporting a rifle and a wide smile. "He saw it," she stutters through tears, "and ever so quietly looked to me with such pain in his eyes… and then he said sorry, and left."

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

I enter the heavy black of night, my marine jacket doing a scarce job of withholding heat; causing me to revisit the idea of purchasing some tinfoil—an old trick I learned during my first tour as a Marine –-the material wondrous to sleep in, trapping and radiating body heat.

I've been walking for about forty minutes, and my feet are beginning to cramp, my eyes sore and red.

In my quick slip out of the party, I managed to hitch a quick ride into town with some departing guests, bidding them farewell with no more than a promise to do the same next Christmas, and what a great time we all had. I've already forgotten their names, the car I was in, where in the world they dropped me off.

I remember some directions I was given, though they're faint, like the next page of a diary, the words seen etched into the paper but unreadable—just out of reach. Go left, go right, turn here, pause and admire the view there, right, left, bus stop, corner, shop, motel, home. You're welcome.

I huff out a breath that's a white fog, the mist blending into the chilling air, the snow on a hiatus, the wind unheard of. My feet are the only sound for miles, crunching through the ice on the ground. I hitch the duffle bag up my arm, the only item I brought through this twenty four hour voyage; a few stacks of cash in the wallet, keys to an abandoned cabin, photos of people who are long gone.

I think of my brother and his wrecked car, the drive to his death, my father, my mother, other remaining family members who never made it longer than a certain month, day, hour. The last remaining Salvatore, the figurative means to an end. How is it the person most in danger always survives? Is it life's idea of comedy? Of a turn in the game?

All of these places I've been, the war, the weight of gunfire and the sticky copper of lost blood, how is I can walk this path? This road? This lane so lonely? I should've been the first in a grave, coffin bound and casket loving. I shouldn't be living right now. Yet I am.

My knees want to buckle, my shoulders want to slump with the weight of the world, and my eyes, notorious for being so blue and light, they want to darken most of all. They want to be as bitter as I'm feeling, giving up the lie of being so pure, so happy, so joyous.

I thought this trip would turn around what pitiful remains of a life I had, though instead, it has just reminded me of more tragedy, more hurt.

I look ahead, into the hazy purple, the sapphire sky, and that's where I see it, a sign so alive and big, I almost fall right into its brightness.

The motel.

I want to laugh, knowing at least I'll be able to lay my head tonight, tomorrow another issue, another dilemma I will soon face. I pull what few crumbled notes I have from my wallet, purchase a room, and sleep with the lights off, and the curtains open. I think of Elena as I watch the snow begin to once again fall, comparing her life to the whiteness, so pure, and my presence as the darkness of the December sky, swallowing the snow and all it's soft serenity.

I will kill her from the inside out. I know it. I feel it.

I dream of it.


	8. Untold Truths

_Hello, all!_

 _Hope you're enjoying the way this story is proceeding. . . Some twists and turns are about to be taken, so stay tuned._

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

The sun rises, and I see white everywhere. In the trees, on the ground, in my eyes that are red from anguished tears and harsh rubbing. I wonder where he is, what he's doing, if he's already back on a plane home.

I'm sleepless, in a state where death is a proverbial feeling, ripping me from ribcage outwards.

My childhood bedroom only holds memories of his first night here, and I can still smell his musky cologne on the sheets. I think I'm stupid, silly, an imaginative girl with an imaginative reality, too caught up in the unfolding bliss to see where really I am and what I'm really doing.

 _It was all a lie_ , I whisper to myself, a sentence that never fails to remind me of the pain in his absence.

I've gotten too attached, too familiar with the man who is only temporary, and now look at me, look where I am—on the couch, huddled in a blanket or five, nursing an emotion induced headache.

Amy stayed with me the night, the little sister I could always rely on, watching old reruns of Christmas movies until yellow took the December sky. She dragged herself off to bed just as my father began clearing the ice off the driveway, looking more like my mother than the youngest member of the Gilbert clan.

My family couldn't understand that he wasn't coming back, that he was gone forever, never seen again by them or me, our time together a simple footnote in his page to page life.

" _I'm sorry."_ He had said to my mother before departing, sounding broken, sounding soft. I tried to envision his harsh gravelly voice in a state that wasn't full of thick tension. Never did he sound apologetic, wistful, saddened… it was always just quick and irritated, blurted almost, like he only had minutes left on earth. I found it intimidating at first, though as our time together lengthened, it was kind of comforting.

"Overthinking is going to be the death of me." I whisper, my voice muffled by the kettle as my mother makes coffee, rubbing my hair as she passes, handing a cup to my father.

"Is she any better?" He whispers from the hallway, slurping his beverage.

A gush of cold air comes from the open door, and I curl further into my five blankets.

"You know how she used to be as a child, Harold. Silence is her way of screaming out the pain."

My father sighs. "What is he playing at?"

"I'm just as angry as you are." My mother says, sounding upset.

I don't want to hear them speak badly of him, so I pull myself from the couch, leaving behind my mountain of bedding. My bedroom is cold and lonely, though easily I fall into the pillows, never needing affection more than I did in that moment.

After being without him, I never thought I'd miss him. I never thought I _needed_ him.

But here I was, and somewhere, he was out in the world, and I wondered in my forever awake state, if he was thinking about our time together too.

I drive with Caroline in the late afternoon, when the white specs of winter slowly dissipate from the sky, welcoming in some form of sunlight. She pauses at the occasional house, church, coffee shop, dropping family members, aunties, Hilda in her hungover state. We're bid farewell, with one armed hugs and wrinkled kisses on the cheek. I'm thankful that they don't mention Damon, though my pride is shrivelling with the weight of their pitiful knowing.

 _Elena is alone again._

 _Where is her boyfriend?_

 _This news will spread like wildfire._

I curl like old leather into the passenger seat, wondering if Matt has already heard, if the Donovan clan are laughing at the expense of my misfortune. My eyes begin to redden with more rubbing, and it isn't until I blink away the heaviness of my own spewing thoughts, that I realise the car has stopped, and the world outside my window is paused.

"What's going on?" My sister whispers, her question thick with concern.

I shrug my shoulders, knowing the crack in my voice will betray me, and tears will shortly follow.

"Have you kissed him?" She pushes.

Confusion becomes me. "Who?" I ask, sounding like an innocent child.

"Matt."

My eyes narrow.

"Don't look at me like that." Caroline snaps, even though I'm not looking at her. I glare into the windscreen and wait for tumbleweeds to swamp the deserted streets of our town. I'm festering in my bitterness.

"I saw you leave the party last night, and then I saw Matt follow shortly after. Damon was worried sick, and then he stormed out looking… broken."

I wince with the word, trying to push that distorted, crumbled image of his breakdown from my mind.

"Did you rekindle anything with Matt? Is that why Damon left?"

" _Jesus Caroline._ "

"Did you?"

"No." I say, loud and clear.

Her voice is softer when she speaks again.

"You can tell me anything, Elena. It's the law of our sisterhood."

My throat is tight, and I look down to my chipped fingernails, the skin of my hands so dry and worn, as if I've spent the night out in the snow.

I tell her, through slow, agonizing force, gritting my teeth to withhold the truth, though eventually pushing it out—like cliffs and rocks trying to contain the storm of the sea, though eventually kneeling to its crashing wave. My honesty overcomes me.

"Well," Caroline releases a long sigh, "you sure did play the part of 'believable couple' good."

I look to see if she is angry with my deception, though she's still gentle in the eyes.

"I wouldn't tell mom if I were you, El."

"I'm not telling anyone other than you." I reassure.

We discuss the pros and cons, the truth and the lie, the possibilities of Damon fleeing Virginia in the span of mere hours—and eventually, Caroline pushes me to the conclusion that he's gone.

"You broke the one condition you promised. He probably thought you went flying off into the sunset with your ex and left."

"Don't say that, Care."

"Be realistic. What would you have thought?"

My heart swells to the size of a football, and breathing becomes painful.

"I can't go home." I say, realising what awaits for me.

My sister nods, thinking logically, as she always does. "Go and stay in a motel."

"And endure the wrath of mom and dad's disappointment?"

"I can handle mom and dad."

"You've handled enough already." I argue.

"Elena." She bluntly says, my name sounding childlike with her parental tone. "Go for a night, order some room service, take advantage of the bar, have a few hot baths and _then_ come home. I'm not saying be gone forever. Just take some breathing space."

I contemplate this, my brows furrowed and hands still dry and knotted together. I didn't need to be back in the city for a few weeks, having saved enough holiday leave for this very special 'Gilbert' occasion. I could take a break, a couple of days, some for drinking, some for those 'hot baths' as Caroline had quoted. I needed it, I wanted it, I took it.

She dropped me off on the curb not far from home, stroking my back as we shared a hug, whispering away my worries.

"You're going to be fine, alright?" She said, to which I reluctantly nodded, as if it were mandatory that I agree.

As the snow began to fall yet again, I waved to my sister, watching the red lights of her Volvo disappear, leaving me in heavy loneliness. I slipped into the lobby, asking for a key and handing over what little cash I had been given.

The room was nice, spacious, full of minimalistic objects that gave the appearance of clearness, practical given my thoughts and worries were spilling as the seconds tolled by, filling what free area there was in my new home. I drew the curtains, kicking off my iced boots and sliding into the pressed bedding.

The bed felt untouched, unused, free of him and our story.

I knew I was being stupid, naive, unrealistic given our brief time together. Though I had enjoyed it, I had enjoyed him, and our little fantasy. I couldn't comprehend that the man who kissed me, held me, looked at me with such promise, was gone—never to be seen again.

I dreamt away such thoughts, and woke with the need to drink.

He was like whiskey, going through me stubbornly, and with the agonizing burn to be remembered. I needed to blur the last few days from my mind.

I made this decision through a delirious state, and instantly reached for my boots.

The bar downstairs was calling to me.

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

"Another?"

"Another."

The glass before me was filled with auburn liquor, and it went down smoothly—a satin like liquid that burned holes in my taste buds. The light buzz of social drunkness corrupted me, and I found myself laughing with people I didn't care about, wishing that the smiles surrounding didn't resemble that of Elena's.

Christmas music played merrily in the background, and a blazing fire heated those who were dozing in armchairs, sporting paper hats and spilled bottles of beer. Filthy water was poured onto the bar, swiped down by a rag and more soap, eliminating the stickiness of alcohol.

I didn't look at anyone, only smiling when necessarily, and glaring when not.

A woman came and sat by me when eight o'clock came, brushing my upper thigh with her manicured nails, staring into me with catlike eyes. She gave me her name and I forgot it, and then she kissed my neck and I remembered it. The barman warned her of my near-to-comatose state, though no-name didn't care, purring eagerly with compliments to my blue eyes and slanted smile.

She shouldn't bother. I'm a lousy lover when I'm drunk. Though I didn't tell her that, the company reviving my shrivelled ego.

I had stayed the night in this very motel, wanting to feel the cold of winter hit my skin, the curtains spread and snow falling throughout the sleepless periods of dusk. I kept my mind off her, Elena, though it was hard, and now I had a feminine distraction waiting before me.

I bounced the muscles in my jaw out of habit, and my teeth clenched willingly to submit what I wanted to say. _Leave._ Though she didn't.

Instead, the girl bent forward, brushing her cleavage along the length of my tense arm, catching my mouth in a touch of turmoil.

I knew a man who didn't have feelings, I served with him in the last few tours, I served with many versions of him, an entire war full of them. They didn't care about morals, about feelings, about tapping into the darkest and lightest parts of themselves. They saw females as objects, as things to be had instead of cherished. I envied that. I envied not being able to smother a girl with my testosterone on a night out, instead, my mind being on the girl I had left at home. I was teased, I was taunted, but at the end of the day, and night, and war, I knew I had feeling enough to have, and want, and need unconditionally. I prized myself on it, and when Elena came along, I festered off the fact I hadn't sold my affection for a few sweaty pounces behind a dumpster. I wanted to remember the women I worshiped in those very sweaty moments, though in this circumstance, I didn't care for the mouth I was kissing, the ass I was grovelling, the thighs that pushed against my hip so needingly.

I tasted an unfamiliar taste and compared it to many others, though her lips were soft, and that was all I needed in this hazy moment. She broke away just as my tongue was taking control, and grinned mischievously—a kitten up to no good.

"I have a room." She said, an offering, though I wasn't focused.

I saw a dash of brown hair, tan skin fleeting through the exit.

Nauseous and a little confused, I dragged myself from the bar, sobering immediately.

I chased after the replaying image, skidding through the lobby where harsh lighting erased any remaining blurriness from my eyes.

Looking left, looking right, I then saw the shell of her, Elena, diving for the elevator.

My tough calves carried my stumbling weight, and I fall against the door before it can close.

Those wildly alert eyes stare up at me, so brown and alive, they almost seem too good to be true.

"Elena." I say, as if her name alone is enough to stop what's unfolding.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, I didn't know you were here." She robotically said, not a hint of feeling in her voice, though I saw it all, I saw it in those brown eyes.

"Let me explain."

"You don't need to. It was all a lie, we were a lie." She reaches forward and presses the button, the doors begin to close and I don't stop them. "Goodbye, Damon." She says, and then she's gone.


	9. The Lamb and The Knife

_Hello, all!_

 _As this story slowly but surely comes to an end, I hope you've enjoyed the journey of the very FATED Damon and Elena. I hope you're satisfied with the next few chapters of this story, and you'll definitely be in store for a few more fanfics this year. The winter here is nearly over!_

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

The heart was a wild creature, and our ribs did a mighty job of caging what havoc laid within. The organ would pulse, would fight, would squeeze and tremor, wishing to be freed, to join a prisonless world. I fought with mine for many years, though never in this room, so dank and dark, did I realise maybe it was time to bid it farewell.

Harsh winds and foamy tides claimed me, dreaming of the worst conditions, of water and its salty wave, crashing into my lungs and over my head. My fingertips would brush the surface, touching cold air, and then the scenery would change, and the water would be boiling, piping, an extreme type of heat. It would melt the flesh off my bones and leave them shiny and grey, a skeleton still able to feel, ribs still caging that wild heart.

Damon wasn't seen in any dream, nor nightmare, though he was there, in more ways than one. He was the surface of the sea, and I was trying to grab him, the remaining bones of my skeleton, when all was ripped away—the fire in my chest, causing my heart to long for evacuation, needing to find freedom, to find solace. How typical was it that the only refuge for my poor tattered organ laid within the depths of his own chest cavity, cool, damp, chilled enough to silence its inferno forever.

I felt as if we belonged together, despite the circumstances that had so desperately tried to pry us apart.

Never did I see it before, the element of us being strangers only deepening my want to know, to experience, to cure my curious fixation with him—him, who had laid beside me in bed, stroking my bare back and gazing into my sleeping face. Him, who patrolled the room through his soldier state, wishing to bring us protection, to bring _me_ protection. The connection was unfathomable, too pure, too deep to be knifed out. I couldn't deny he was far too rooted in me, though I couldn't admit it either.

A day, two, three we had known each other, was it possible for feelings to sneak their way in so quickly and sharply? Did I really care for him?

I couldn't think, I couldn't breathe with the weight of the cold waiting for me, knocking on the motel window, wanting to fester inside my piping hot soul.

The sun had begun its early patrol, just lifting over the landscape to soar way above, bringing with it more white, more snow and ice.

I brought with me no clothes, left in the same casual outfit as yesterday. I threw on my father's hunting jacket and stuffed my feet inside a pair of boots, opting on fleeing from the motel room, opposed to sitting and rotting in it. I moved quickly, with little care of the amount of noise I was making, diving through corridors and bouncing my foot impatiently through the journey of the elevator.

The lobby was fairly busy, people wanting to pay early and get some breakfast before hitting the traffic.

I saw a few familiar faces, all too occupied and tired to notice my arrival.

The small restaurant inside the complex was overflowing, though across the road was a diner, freshly stocked with coffee and baked goods, well out of the way of Damon, and his new love interest.

I didn't want to think about his mouth moving against another, the soft, supple brush of a woman's lips making him far more happy than mine. I strode across the icy pavement and felt tears surface, my overthinking doing the worst for my health.

He had a rare smile, one that you saw once or twice in a lifetime, rich with charisma and charm, understanding and knowing you. It played on a consistent loop in my head the more I tried to focus on anything but.

I stepped out onto the road, wanting to interrupt the movie that longed to play, my eyes retaliating too late. A car was whirling down the lane, inching for me, its speed unstoppable. I gasped, a loud, breathless sound that echoed throughout the streets of Virginia, and stumbled to my knee.

A hand reached out from behind and grasped the hood of my jacket, heaving me back in that sliced second, freeing me of what pain was likely to come.

Shock surmounted me, and all I could do was shake.

Arms enveloped me, and it wasn't until I allowed myself to breathe in, that I smelt the familiar musk of rich cologne. Instinctively, I threw my arms around the body, clutching with all my might.

"Are you alright?" He whispered in my ear. Damon.

It was a stupid question, one that couldn't be answered right away, though I nodded, giving in to the weight of his hold. He felt perfectly perfect in every way.

I didn't want to move an inch, though he nudged my head backwards with his hand, cradling me with a comforting amount of precision. "Now," He sighed, more breath than words, brushing my lower lip with his thumb, "why are you crying?"

I was still trembling with the urgency of my near death, though I managed to form words, ones that weren't overthought and twisted. "I care about you." I said, staring up into his brilliant blue eyes, "and seeing you kiss that girl affected me more than I thought possible."

Damon frowned, his brows pulling in, shadowing his face with a seriousness that never left. "Elena." He but said, as if it were disapproving. "I'm bad for you."

I could feel the want radiating through him, and I went on a hunch, lifting upwards, pressing my lips against his. He reacted quickly, needingly, manoeuvring his body to hold me in a way that was greedy and exciting. I felt his fingers stretch along my back, pushing me into the long, lanky tallness of his torso.

"Take me." I whispered fiercely, a few words that but strengthened his own fire.

Damon strode backwards, heaving me into the lobby that was thick with chatter and conversation. We dove like playful teenagers into the elevator, and rode up to the fourth floor. His motel room was cold upon arrival, the windows open and curtains pushed aside—a chill ran down my spine, following the pace of his fingers. I fell onto the mattress, and he stood before me, our eyes saying what our voices couldn't.

Damon pulled the shirt off his back, exposing the marble like appearance of his muscled body, kneeling on the bed where I was then overshadowed by him, and all his godly glory.

Admiringly, the pads of my fingertips brushed his shoulders, his long neck, the barely visible freckles under his eyes. I kissed him more softly this time, holding him in place, massaging his worries away with my soft lips. We made love in the midst of mayhem and torturous winds, intertwined and igniting, our passion submerging us.

...

When the afternoon arrived, the weather only strengthened, blowing cold air through the open window, freezing what skin of mine was exposed. I slithered out from underneath Damon's weight around two o'clock, our unexpected session having only induced sleep—something we both gladly became submissive to. I pulled one of the complimentary robes around my nakedness, stretching along the window to snag the door closed. Damon barely twitched to the sound, only curling more into the white sheets, gone from the world.

Far too awake and alert, I then splashed some water on my face in the bathroom, eyeing the pores that had opened and blotchiness that had appeared. Stress and sleepless nights weren't in my favour, though I was far too at bliss to care.

Through my search for a towel, it was only when I claimed one that I found a small, leather something buried and torn at the hem. I flipped over the cover, and inside was a stream of aged looking photos—Damon's face sticking out in each. At first he was with friends, all of them smiling despite the war surrounding, eating peculiar looking sausages and surmounted in dirt. The next was of a woman, aged, paired with two children in a back yard—I could only assume this was his first love, the woman he had scarcely told me about in the beginning. She was dark haired and light skinned, chiselled in the cheeks and full in the hips. I couldn't help but compare us both, and smile at the little similarities.

Pictures of young children kept appearing, alongside a fresh looking male, with bronze locks and green eyes, the unspoken of brother that died, no doubt. I secretly sliced my way through each image, though when arriving at the last, all hint of joy drained from me.

Brown eyes stared at me, creased and narrowed with happiness, arms linked around that of Damon, his boyish smirk laughing with the essence of the image. It was set during one of the Marine tours, last year's to be more precise. Iraq. 275 troops. Summer.

It was scorching hot over there, so hot they used to have ice baths instead of normal showers, savouring what water they could find. I remember the letters home, the familiar scrawl of handwriting. Tears were now brimming in my eyes.

I pried the picture from the brown wallet, taking it over to Damon, where he slept obliviously.

I shook him awake, and held out the photo with pain surging through me.

"Why didn't you say anything?" I asked.

The grogginess vanished from him in an instant.

"I didn't know that was him until last night, when I left."

I narrowed my eyes to detect any spec of lying, though he was open and honest, looking at the picture instead of me.

"You knew him?" I shakily asked.

Those blue eyes flickered to me. "I was there when he died."

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

 _The world seemed to crumble, giving in on itself, the paths cracking and dirt blowing like puffs of smoke from the ventilation systems._

 _July 19_ _th_ _2014\. Iraq._

" _Move! Move! Move!" shouted our team leader, charging masses of camouflaged men through the entryway, the basement of the building minutes for submerging to dust and brick. The gun swung on my back, my feet like water in the sweat of my boots. One of the laces came free and I tripped on a step, slamming to my knees as men trod and washed over me. If it wasn't for my pause, I wouldn't have heard the cry of pain coming from the west room._

" _Move!" was instructed yet again, ignored by only me. I based my decision on instinct, fleeing from the stoned steps and into the room that was usually guarded. Inside, a dozen men and women were dead, though there was still a body wriggling, knifed down by a slab of broken ceiling._

 _I knelt beside the figure, and instantly recognized it to be a friend._

" _Damon." He choked through the pain, a line of red dripping from his mouth. "Damon you need to help me."_

 _I nodded without a word, hooking my forearms under the concrete and lifting with all my might. The slab of ceiling wouldn't budge, and my calves only protested the longer I remained crouched. My friend released a howl of agony, twisting in pain whilst the footsteps of our pals trotted passed us._

" _I'm not letting you die in here, don't worry." I but grumbled through my teeth, clenching my jaw exceptionally hard as I continued to heave._

" _Stop, stop." He protested, causing me to slacken my strength. The concrete had barely budged from the ground, and now it was settling back on his lower half._

" _Take my hand." He said. I did. We gripped fists as if we were going to arm wrestle, staring at one another with an undefinable amount of regret._

" _You're too young." I said, as if that was sorry enough._

" _And you're too pretty to die here with me." He joked._

 _My laugh was forced, and it ended quickly._

" _You need to shoot me, Damon."_

" _No."_

" _I don't want to be crushed to death. Please. Please for me."_

 _I was faced with an unexempting dilemma, and as much as I wanted to bolt for the exit, I couldn't help but reflect on my friendship with the man crushed by concrete. A year served together, only strengthening on our bond. I couldn't deny his last dying wish._

 _I released his hand and manoeuvred the gun to my front, supporting the neck in my grip, the barrel against his skull._

" _Thank you, Damon." He whispered, closing his eyes, accepting his fate._

" _Goodbye, Jeremy." I sighed._

 _My finger brushed the trigger, and the whoosh of the bullet was silenced by the concrete that began to fall. I made it out of the building just as the world crumbled to dust, the splatter of blood still on my hands, the image still fresh in my head._

...

Elena sunk into the bed, her fingers brushing over the face of her brother, appearing so happy and full of life. The image was taken but weeks before the tragedy, and I hadn't been able to look at it until this very week, when my demons dominated me to face what fate I had made for myself.

I killed the brother of the woman I was falling for. How sick of destiny is that?

"Please say something." I muttered, crouched but inches beside her.

She ignored my words, though ever so lightly slanted her body to rest against mine, her head against my shoulder. "You've done nothing wrong." She whispered, her voice feather light. "You've done an honour, and I only love you more for it."


	10. UPDATE

_Hello, all._

 _Sorry for the lack of update. Though without it being Christmas and all, I've somewhat lost inspiration for this story._

 _I'll be finishing it (with a few twists and turns) come December, but until then, other Damon and Elena stories shall be posted._

 _Hope you all have a tremendous year!_

 _Lots of love,_

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _PS. LEAVE SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR WHAT YOU WANT TO READ NEXT. INSPIRATION IS ALWAYS NEEDED._


	11. Gone Girl

_Hello, all!_

 _It's been a while, hasn't it?_

 _I know I promised I would be continuing this in the later months of this year, but it seems I can't stick to my words— especially when stories I /love/ are involved._

 _Don't hate me after reading this outcome, it was the way the story was always meant to go. And the aftermath will be posted as soon as possible._

 _More stories will be posted— despite the show ending this year._

 _Love,_

 _InsomniousInk_

 _XO_

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

I lay with him for a while, watching the rays come in from the window, gliding across his back that is bare and freckled from days serving in the sun.

We ate last night, ordering in the little restaurant below, sharing a comfortable silence.

I didn't know, as I portioned off slices of desert, if I was going to tell my parents about the connection between Jeremy and Damon, the topic alone so fragile. It could break them, it could break whatever me and him had. It could shatter everything.

Though as I awoke, to no little or no less, a brain still brimming with speeding questions and no answers, I couldn't help but for a moment forget the world and enjoy the comfortable tension between us. It was a warm, inviting feeling, being beside the one you love and care about.

Love. Never did I think that word would be relevant in my life again.

I loved him.

It brought a fork like stab to my stomach, skewering my insides in a pain unlike no other. I hadn't loved. . . not since Matt, and that infamous ending was enough to have me running for the hills.

Though I did love him. I loved his stubborn exterior and dreary invitingness. His lips that were so selflessly focused on massaging my worries away. His hands that were tarnished at the knuckles. His eyes that were in a constant state of turmoil.

Yes. Damon had struck me hard and fast, a lightning bolt that came from a sunny sky. Unexpected, unwanted, but still there.

He began turning when rays of light poured through the curtain, thick bands of yellow that shined in his face.

A groan, a cough, an arm that securely went around me.

As I stared into the wall, finding cracks and specs of dust that I hadnt before, I could feel the fiery line of his stare in the back of my head. I breathed slowly and steadily, eventually turning to face his wild and awake gaze.

"I'm okay." I firstly said, interrupting any awkward hello. We didn't need an introduction. We had already said enough in our dreams.

His laying arm lifted, a thumb brushing under my eye, catching what I expected to be a stray tear—not feeling it until there was but a swipe of wet left.

He then didn't say anything more, leaning in, invading my pained territory—washing away fear (fear for not wanting to feel) and inner agony.

"Shh." He said, a slow 'hush' of breath that vibrated against my lips. We kissed, slow, soft and meaningful, him raised on his elbows and me a limp body of distraction beneath.

I mewled, whining against our kiss, and he frowned, bringing me closer into him.

We decided in that moment, between tongue and skin, that we would go back together, that we would live out our days of fake, fabricated happiness in the Gilbert household—and the rest be a bridge we would come to, a decision that would be made at the ticket office, when one passport would fly one way, and perhaps the other, another way.

Breakfast was missed, and he bid me goodbye in the doorway to his room, his lower half wrapped in a towel, and his hair soaked from a shower. He looked beautiful, that I couldn't deny. A dark, dishevelled God that had so selfishly interrupted my life.

"I'll see you in a few minutes." I promised, sauntering down the hallway, getting the elevator up to a new floor.

The room was cold when I entered it, a steady blow of ice and snow coming in from the open window. I sighed, my breath a fog and hands shaking as I wrought it shut, frost licking the furniture in an unnatural, twilight-zone way. I worked as hard as I could to find my belongings and get gone.

Though as I picked up my bag, bringing out my phone to see a low battery, but bright and alive screen—I noticed the 13 missed calls from Caroline.

A sickness—unlike no other—rose in my throat, and I dropped everything and hit dial.

She answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Elena! Do you not check your phone nowadays?"

"I was with Damon, I left it in my room—what's going on? Is mom and dad okay?"

"No," She steadied herself with a sigh. "Amy is missing."

"Missing?" I frowned, alarmed.

"She was home yesterday," Caroline explained, "though after Richard and I got home with the kids, mom was frantically crying and dad was out with his gun in the garden, looking for her."

My loud, obvious swallow hit that air as a _glug_.

"We'll be home as soon as we can." I promised.

"Hurry."

...

I didn't expect the urgency in his body, though as we fought for a taxicab outside the hotel, worry framed him into a state of stiffness; moving in quick, hurried jabs that only caused me to fumble behind. He flagged one down before I managed to wrangle my bag out the door, and in a matter of moments, I was being whirled through the foggy, frozen side of town and into the country, fear sticking like sugar to my teeth as they chattered with the cold.

He was bouncing his knee impatiently, massaging the muscles of his defined jaw.

I thought of Amy, fearful and alone on a sidewalk, blue with death.

What a stupid, silly thought. Ridiculous. Sick.

Though it wouldn't vanish, only growing deeper in detail, twisting my stomach more.

Her blonde tuff of curls, her brown eyes, her head against the curb. . .

I winced without realising, and his head snapped to me, noting the fear that wrangled at my eyes and lips—both sore and raw. He only lurched forward, smacking the arm of the driver and asking him to hurry. It sped up our drive by a few minutes, though we still arrived three-quarters of an hour later.

Caroline was waiting on the drive for us when we arrived.

"It's okay." She whispered, her ivory skinned arms wrapping around me as Damon paid for the cab. "I wouldn't go inside, not yet. . . Mom is frantic and Dad is out."

"Where is Richard?"

"With the kids upstairs."

I widened the width between us, peering into her eyes that looked distraught and tired and rimmed with sadness.

"What do you think?" I asked.

She swallowed once, and peered behind my shoulder, smiling weakly to Damon's presence. "I think she's seriously hurt."

I felt his stern breath against the back of my neck, followed by his shadow as it blocked the blinding sunlight. His words hindered me. "We'll want to start looking immediately. Cars are a good choice to use in this weather, though on foot would be best. If she can't drive, there's a higher possibility she would have wandered off-road rather than follow the pavement."

Caroline registered this better than I did, and nodded with a business-like expression. "I can go out in the car and start looking. Dad is out on foot. Mom is by the phone."

"I'll search the roads." Damon suggested, and my hand instinctively went to his hand, holding with fear.

"I'll go with you."

He didn't meet my eyes, though there was a nod, and then he was shrugging off his rucksack and prying out a large, navy jacket. . . the one I had worn in the airport that day. He offered it over, and I shrugged into it with a comfort, breathing in the musky scent that came off of it like heat.

I heard the rumble of Caroline's Volvo as it took off into the distance, and then filled the silence with a sigh.

"Hey," he said, raising my chin with his thumb, "we'll find her."

I nodded, swallowing down the worry.

We took off into the snow as the afternoon began to settle in, moving through the trees until nightfall.

* * *

 _Damon_

* * *

The moon was bright and brilliant, and it cast down a silver glow across the undergrowth; a natural light in this abyss of darkness.

Elena was travelling behind, her feet stumbling through the twigs and moss, unlike my movements that were silent and still. I caught her from falling a few times, and embarrassedly, she bloomed a light pink, one that could only be deepened if I kissed her mouth in reassurance. She was so beautiful. There was a selfishness in me that longed to take her back to the hotel and close her away from this world—one that I had so brutally experienced. Though longingly, she wished to find her sister, and her woes were my priority.

We would continue walking, and for her, stumbling.

The trees began to narrow the deeper we searched, heading off the pavement and into the meat of the Virginian outskirts; the dirt floor thinning into muddy leaves the closer we got to the wetter parts of the land, rushing water heard in the distance.

Elena slipped as the path cornered off into a hill, tumbling a few steps down.

I caught her beneath the arm, her forehead lightly grazing the trunk of a tree; breaths coming out in great wheezes.

"Baby," I said, hoisting her from the floor, an unknown sense of concern in my voice. She gripped the roots of my arms, her tiny fingers squeezing as she swallowed down the adrenaline that built in waves instead of streams; blood lining her cheek. I brushed it away attentively, and kept her close for moments.

"That was. . ." She laughed, half breath, half chuckle, "scary."

An amused grin took one corner of my mouth, short lived by the scream that came in the distance. Our heads turned, but mine was quicker, and in the bitter darkness of the distance, I saw a flash of blonde hair dart through the trees, diving towards the running water. I fled Elena's side and dived after it, running through the trees that zipped past, her sweet begs for me to stay lingering in the distance.

Amy ducked beneath an overflow of trees, heading towards a murky fog that blinded me entirely. I ran without sight, slicing through that grey with narrowed eyes, only realising I was in water when the splashing slowed my strides.

"Amy!" I heard Elena yell from behind, her voice jumbled as she gasped and heaved breath, trying to catch up.

Cold pain darted up my calves, and I retreated to land, squinting to make sense of the grey haze in which she ran off into. There was nothing but a fog of steam on the water's surface, and a strip of muddy leaves. No sign of her.

The impending footsteps of Elena were nearing, and just as she reached me, I saw to the side but a bridge that stretched to another island of shrubbery. I took off to its length with large, wagging strides, finding on it a scene of the strangest sorts.

There I saw, Amy, crouched against the railings with but a towering figure at her side, appearing feeble and afraid.

"—never do that again." The body growled, and a slap – louder than the hissing crack of a whip – came across her cheek, prompting a squeak of indifference. Amy sniffled, and my anger boiled.

I neared the figure with an outstretched hand, close enough to break a bone.

Though Amy's eyes flickered, and widened with surprise, landing on me and giving away the element of surprise. The figure turned, and struck out a fist, staggering me backwards with an aching jaw.

Matt.

He struggled for something in his pocket, and I regained my stance, momentarily dazed by the outlet of anger that pushed from his knuckles. I caught another fist as it came down, and jerked left, twisting with the action, his muscles. Matt yelped, and came to one knee, his slack jaw snapping shut as I kneed that chin.

Amy struggled to stand in the distance, Elena closing in with horror.

"Soldier." Matt growled, cradling his face.

Elena released a hiss of disgust, her arm slinging around her trembling sister. "What the hell is going on?"

A line of red dribbled out of Matt's mouth, and with it came a splutter of laughter. "Your sister here has been… entertaining me."

Amy whimpered and hid in Elena's chocolate blanket of hair.

"I thought he loved me." She said, and the pieces fell into a perfect picture.

Elena's mouth slackened in disgust, and she turned away with teary eyes. "You're vile."

He shrugged without care, "she was good in the sack. But not as good as you, Elena."

This was when the rage turned into flaming anger, and out poured my disgust, gripping him by the shoulder and heaving him to a stand. I had every urge to throw him over the bridge, to have him plummet into the water that was but a surface of ice on this side—not a wave or stream to be seen.

Though he was quicker, with reaching that sharp something in his pocket.

A piece of glass tore through the skin in my side, and blood came gushing to the frozen surface of the bridge; pain streaking like no other.

"No!" Elena screamed, leaving her sister's side to flee after my staggering body.

I went over the barrier and flew to the bitter end, hitting and shattering that frozen surface, sinking into the cold beneath. The water was black down here, and my death came quickly.

Gone.


	12. Stay

_Hello, all!_

 _Hasn't it been a journey? I want to thank all of you for being so patient, as this has taken me well into a year to complete this. The ending is very. . . well, cleanly cut and quick. I wanted to leave it as if it were a movie, and where would you finish something like that? With the lights going down, and the view left to think._

 _I loved writing this, and it went from Christmas Fun to heartache!_

 _I'll be continuing to write for TVD, whether the show ends or not. It's where my muse is best, and I want to keep the stories alive._

 _Your reviews have been amazing to read, thank you for every one._

 _Love,_

 _InsomniousInk_

 _Xo_

* * *

 _Elena_

* * *

Red and blue lights flickered in the puddles of leftover rain, the sky a cast-over cloud of grey.

They sheltered me, with their blankets and flasks, trying to console the girl whom had just lost her partner, her lover, her boyfriend. It was all a lie, fabricated truth that had turned into feeling, and feeling that had turned into hurt.

I was mourning, grieving the way a wife would her husband, or a child would a grandparent.

There were tears, pebbling down my face in great streams that didn't seem to stop, blending in with what spitting rain still remained. They didn't talk to me at first, the family of mine that had gathered—dad kissing the soft, cold head of my youngest sister, my mother rubbing her arm. Caroline was still out in the car, stuck in what snow had melted to ice, and Richard was with the kids.

I settled down, my forehead pressed against the heel of my hand, trying to keep the thoughts at bay, the images of his body as it slinked to the bottom of the ice—the ice they were still checking, still searching through. I looked up as a man approached, more stomach than figure. He had a moustache and a questioning gaze.

"Are you Elena Gilbert?"

I could only but nod, sniffling.

"Your parents tell me that this man was your boyfriend."

Again, I nodded.

"What was his name, sweetheart?"

"Damon," I said, teeth clenching from the cold and the pain of that simple name.

"Damon what?"

I opened my mouth, lips parting to finish that question—though I was stumped. I couldn't remember if he had told me his last name, if we ever got that far. Three days (or was it four? Five?) that we had known each other. I barely knew my own name at this point.

I shook my head. "I don't know."

The man's brow furrowed. "What about his home town? Where does this Damon live?"

Again, I could do nothing but shrug.

The man was getting sceptical.

I was beginning to question the reality of this situation, if I had fabricated him all along. Was he real? Was this real? Would I wake up on the aeroplane in moments to come and find myself alone, eating peanuts, reading about Mr. Darcy?

The officer's heavy glare burned into my skin, singeing me with embarrassment—and then a holler came from the far side of the bridge, and I dropped both blanket and flask to run after the noise, splitting the yellow tape that warned with its franticness.

"Miss Gilbert!" Yelled the officer, though I was too far forward, lunging over the barrier to peer into that frozen lake that was blood splattered on the surface. A man was abdomen-high in the water, wearing a special costume, holding up something silvery and shiny.

Damon's dogtags, attached to a tuff of black hair.

The officer took me by the arm and steered us both away. I was whimpering, shivering with both tears and disbelief. He was truly down there; he was truly dead. I couldn't believe it, but somehow did.

"Harold." The officer called to my father, talking as if they were old friends. "Take her home, will you? It's getting dark."

"No." I but immediately protested, the arms of my father like a cage I wasn't ready to fit into. I fought, kicking out in great bounds that urged me forth, wanting to see him, needing to see him. He was still here. He had to be.

"Elena." My father sighed, wringing me into a stiff position against his chest, carting me through the trees as I protested in leaps and bounds. I cried desperately, screaming until my chest ached and itched, cheeks blossoming to a red. I would be heard. I would not leave.

Though the fists against me were strong, and I was tiring out with exhausted pleas.

"Please, daddy. I need to see him. Please."

My father released what sounded to be a pained sigh, an exhale that longed to release me. Though he remained wrought, and I didn't have anger enough in me to attack and punch and bite. I allowed myself to be pulled, passing a police car as we went.

In the back of it was Matt, looking waxy and grim against the red and blue lights. I lurched out a foot as we passed, kicking the glass with a scream. He looked over to me with those blue eyes—blue, a colour I now hated—full of anguish. I spat to the floor and was yanked the rest of the way home, still fighting.

I slept without dreaming, blackness evading me in the childhood room that smelt of my soldier.

I watched the moon from the comfort of my windowseat, without a blanket, without a pillow, with only the jacket he had left me with. No one bothered me. No one asked me his last name, nor where he lived. I was simply alone. I was simply with the thought of him, and his blood on that ice surface.

I awoke when the sun heavily dominated the sky, a golden eye that peered down upon me, watching as I slithered through the room with light footsteps—looking and sounding like a ghost.

I sat on the edge of the bed for moments, perhaps hours, doing nothing but staring into the wooden floor and expecting him to materialise out of it. I went through his rucksack, finding nothing but clothes and the wallet with my brother's photo in it. No driver's licence. No credit card. Just photos and a coupon card for Mimi's Diner down in Chicago. They did great waffles, or so the slogan said.

It was as if he had just vanished, slipping below that ice surface and died in the great cold.

He died without being known.

I would cry about this for another few hours, alone and mourning his beautiful, blue eyes. I hated that colour now, or so I had repeated to myself. I would believe it one day.

 _…_

 _THREE MONTHS LATER_

 _…_

"Are you sure you know where you're going?"

"I only have five minutes' left on the road, dad. I'm going to be fine."

There was a grunt, mixed with some static reception, and then he faded into nothing.

I thumbed the off-button, my phone moments from dying—that little nickering thought in the back of my mind saying 'keep the charge, you might need it if you're stranded.'

It was scary, being out in the middle of nowhere, a cabin that sat upon a mountain, surrounded by the leftover winter season; a dust of white here, a fleck of ice there. It was lonely, it was quiet. And this was going to be where he would stay his Christmas leave, after the army.

" _There was this cabin,"_ He had whispered one night, as we lay in the cottage on daddy's land, his shirt on the floor and my mouth on his neck, _"I would go up there every year with my father, my brother, my mother. They all chipped off slowly, dying in their own ways. I was the last one left, and this year would have been my Christmas alone. In Maine. I don't know what I was planning to do there, but it wasn't… festive."_

 _I kissed his neck a little more, in the first trimester of our flourishing passion. He sighs, closing his eyes, the muscles in his jaw going._

" _It was number twenty-four, I'll always remember. Once sixteen, though changed after my mother died. Her and my dad were married for twenty-four years, and so he honoured it. The Green Hill sector."_

 _I continued to kiss, to love, to cherish every inch of his white, waxy skin. He felt so strong in my hands._

" _You're an angel to me, Elena. You don't know it, but you're an angel."_

There were tears brimming in my eyes now as I rode on, though I blinked them back and forced a smile; convincing myself to keep it together, at least whilst driving. The cabins drifted past; 14, another few miles, 15, another few, 24… _Once sixteen_.

Hard, did I yank on the handbrake, rooting the borrowed truck into place. It rolled to a stop, and I pried out the suitcase I had bought, wheeling it along the gravel path, and chattering up the stone steps. It was large, polished, and on the lip of rock and rubble—a handsome little porch sticking out like a sore thumb, where an old swing rocked lightly in the mountain breeze, trees keeping what frost still remained off the roof.

The wooden steps were glazed with thin sheets of ice, slippery to walk upon, shattering beneath the weight of my left foot. Right foot, I was now in front of the door, twisting the handle, barging against the frame with my shoulder. It must've been barricaded from the inside, weighed shut by a heavy piece of furniture. An exasperated sigh left my lips, hitting the air as a fog. I was going to break one of the windows, something I didn't want to do—worried dreadfully if there was strength enough in me.

One hit, two hits, three—the glass jingled as it hit the carpeted floor on the inside, a shatter that was deafened by another whistle of arguing wind. I slid inside, the blistered bottoms of my feet feeling every shard of glass through the worn soles of my shoes. I breathed a deep, painful breath, the partially warm air irritating what cold my lungs had adjusted to. To my left, there was an empty fireplace, and to my right, a large kitchen.

I patched up the break in the glass, covering it with an old bookcase.

The home began to warm instantly, a stronger heat that radiated through the many different areas of the cabin, ones I explored all too fondly. The two bedrooms bared no electricity, and the kitchen was scarce of food, no water coming from the taps. I couldn't help but blame the late winter season and all its wrath. My stay would have been kinder had everything worked accordingly.

Unzipping the highest compartment in the case, I pried out a packet of matches and a bottle of white fluid—something daddy recommended. Spritzing some into the vacant fireplace, the logs darkening under the wet spritz. With one strike, I created a dark flame, orange and rich in colour, tossing it into the darkness. A pool of red burst against the brick arch, and slowly, a fire began to cook; March embers spitting out.

I lowered to the moth bitten carpet, resting against the arm of the couch, heating my skin against the flickering flames. There was a doziness about my body, the jetlag and travel doing pain to my aching legs and arms. I was comfortable, in a way I couldn't describe. It was as if he was here with me, in the very ghost of this cabin. We were together again.

His blue eyes, looking intently into me, into my soul…

His arms, muscled and protective, going around me…

His hair, thick and dark between my fingertips…

I had loved him in a matter of days, and I continued to think about him, during every second, every minute, every moment of my ongoing life.

 _Damon, oh Damon, I didn't say it when we were together, but I'm screaming it now._

 _I lov—_

"Elena?"

There was a thumb against my lip, and breath against my cheek. I smelt his cologne, that indescribable musk of bitter sweetness. It felt so real, so unimaginably real.

I didn't want to open my eyes, I didn't want to disrupt what perfectness I was feeling, I was breathing into my very body. I inhaled again, and it was as if he was right here, he was right with me.

"Elena?" Came the voice again, so beautiful, so vivid. "Baby, open your eyes."

No, I inwardly protested. Though my imagination got the better of me, and pulling my lashes back, I saw that colour, that blue I vowed I would hate for an eternity, on a face that had been blessed as dead to my life.

There was a sob, a disbelieving cry, and then I was in his strong arms, and my dream was reality.

"You're alive." I whimpered, and clutched onto his hair. His fingers spread up my back and clung to the fibres of my jacket. "I knew you were alive. I knew it."

Damon retrieved back, his gaze wild and maddened. His face was covered in hair, a faint beard that covered the dimples in his cheeks. "Kiss me." He said, with deep, aching lust in his voice.

I pressed my lips to his, and with it, tasted every tear I had cried since his leave.

It was consuming.

* * *

Q&A:

 _Why did Damon fake his death and move to the cabin?_

(after witnessing what happened with Jeremy, he didn't want to fulfill those ranks anymore. He had no desire to be a soldier. He took the opportunity to fake his death, and leave the army without question, and move to the cabin where he could stay and accumulate a new identity.)

 _Would he have ever come back for Elena?_

(Yes, and no. He wouldn't of, simply by the fact he believes he is incapable of love, especially what happened to Katherine – if you remember from the first few chapters, with her kids and the husband – he believes he is a poison, a cancer of sorts. On the flip side, he is outrageously infatuated, and in love – though it would take a lot for him to admit it – with Elena. He wouldn't have stayed away for long.)

 _Did Matt go to jail?_

(ABSOLUTELY. Though he wasn't charged with the death of Damon, because the judge and jury believed it to of been the fall that killed him. Not the stab)

 _Will there be a follow up story?_

(If it's demanded enough, I guess I could twist a few arms in order to make a conclusion, 2016 edition. It's up to the readers. I write what you guys want to see most and listen to your reviews more than anything.)

 _Any more questions? Leave them below._


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